


The (7%) Solution

by RationalistRomantic (Chryses)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Kiss, GOT reference, Jim is brutal, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Medical Inaccuracies, Mentions of Moriarty's father, Mini case fic, Minor Character Death, Mrs. Hudson is a sly lady, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock and Jim met before, Sherlock was incarcerated for 4 years, Sherlock's Antics, The author trying to be clever, lots of subtext, not SH or JW, post-Reichenbach AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:32:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7213441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryses/pseuds/RationalistRomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A head cannon AU in where the fall had happened years before John met Sherlock, and the events that followed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The (7%) Solution

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this literally the longest thing I think I've ever written in my whole life. Ever. Not sure if I could go through this again, with an even larger fic, but I was bored, and a lot of what if's had been going through my head. The Google Doc's where I stored this file initially fried when I accidentally pasted 35 pages in the middle of the 93 pages, and reverted to an earlier version of this. Hopefully everything's been fixed, and all the details I've edited would remain, because I don't think I could go back to page one again. -nervous laughter- Anyways, a few things to keep in mind are:
> 
> \- The case provided in this fic is based off of an Unsolved Mystery of Sir Edmund Godfrey with my own little twist to it. If you'd like to look it up, here's the link: 
> 
> http://listverse.com/2013/12/30/10-unsolved-mysteries-from-london/
> 
> \- And anything related to the case portion of this is entirely fictional. I'm not sure whether the 'event' with skin regeneration would act as such, but from experience, prior educational knowledge and theoretical guess, it could be plausible. Pursuing replication of the procedure would hurt like hell, and you wouldn't want to see the results, so don't do it.
> 
> \- Also, if you've a good memory, CO stands for Commanding Officer when you pass by the term. I'm not sure whether the code is still being used, but I added it in for authenticity. Any corrections to this, I would be more than happy to edit if you'd comment below.
> 
> \- The word counter here says 34,512 words, but really it's 34, 979 if we're getting into specifics.
> 
>  
> 
> Anything I may have missed, I would probably add later on. Other than that, please enjoy!

“If that’s how you think you could help me, _brother_ , then you can go ahead and fuck off! I don’t need you, and your help!”

 

John finds himself  dragged like rag doll by the arm, having his yet-to-be unpacked luggage shoved aggressively towards his chest. His possessions had been close to nothing, which made it all the more easier leave, and be out the door in minutes. Coincidentally, it had been a small flat anyway, enough to occupy two people in the very least, which made his packing swift and efficient.

 

He had been fortunate that Clara had already moved out months prior; she deserved better to be resorted to countless pity parties, and passive-aggressive conversations in the middle of the night. Not that it hid any of the guilt he’s been harbouring about having left Harry in her time of need ever since their parents died, but he knows his sister too well, and he knew it for a fact that she would never accept help from anyone, especially him. As to why he even bothers, he still questions up to this day. But, much as he never got on with his sister, he still loves her regardless. Even when she does seldom accepts it.

 

Before the door had slammed to a close, Harry opens the door one more time, resuming to throw a newly purchased phone with encryptions in the back. She looked slightly contrite, eyeing John one last time before closing the door for the final time.

 

It’s as he was trying to contemplate his next rational move on acquiring an affordable flat does he receive a text from his sister.

 

**_I’m sorry Johnny. I’m nt good. I don’t wnt to ruin our relationship evn more._ **

 

And.

 

 **_Mum always loved you best._ ** Or in other words, she doesn’t want to feel like shit for having just thrown him out of the flat when most people should’ve been sleeping.

 

John swipes a hand at his face.

 

The thing is, as much as he’d like to make amends, he is aware of the events that would follow after: he apologizes, she attempts to make peace, promises that she wouldn’t touch a single drop, only to go and reveal her never ending prized decanter when she’s a little more than inebriated to be able to construct a proper lie that John could pretend to believe. Right now, however, he’s just too bloody exhausted (both mentally and physically) to even attempt it. If she had wanted to get ahold of him, she would be the first one to contact him (being the first owner of the phone).

 

He ends up asleep on a park bench in Regent’s Park swaddled in three layers of his finest jumpers.

 

-

 

“Oh bollox!” He idly hears a woman cuss beneath her breath.

 

John had been too swallowed by gun shots, and agonizing screams to be able to settle properly on sleep, so it wasn’t like he’d been asleep for very long to forget his bearings altogether.

 

When he refocuses on his field of sight, he sees a docile, geriatric woman in a purple, timeless chiffon dress, attempting to gather her fallen groceries back into her handbag. He sees a couple of oranges roll over towards his direction, and he swiftly plucks them from where they were currently migrating towards, preventing them from rolling down the road - however empty the trafficway may have been during this time of day.

 

“Thank you, young man.” She pipes, smiling adoringly towards John. Her gaze does a quick swift over his getup, as well as the items he’s carrying. He feels himself tense the moment she sees the grip he has on his cane. “How about a nice cuppa, my place?”

 

And before John could get a word in.

 

“Please. It’s the least I could do, after helping little old me.”

 

John had been tempted to say “no”, to refuse her offer, but the strength of her attention suggested otherwise.

 

“I, uh,” he shifts oddly from one feet to another. “- yes, I’d love a cuppa.”

 

She beams excitedly, clapping her hands, visibly elated. He idly wonders whether anyone with half-a-mind could have ever refused any requests from her.

 

“Great! Come on then, I’ve fresh muffins that I’ve allowed to cool for us to nibble on, and a pie in the oven..” She cranes her head towards the flats on the adjacent block. “My flat’s just down there, in Baker Street, so we shouldn’t have any trouble ambling all our things in.”

 

John mutely nods, slinging some of her carry on bags towards his uninjured arm, providing a hefty lift.

 

“Alright, let’s go.”

 

-

 

“Oh, John. You wouldn’t believe what Mrs. Turner had told me about. Well, she actually hasn’t told me anything as of yet, but I heard from Susan that she got married once.” She provides with a saucy wink. “Couldn’t get myself to confirm it with her, do you think I should?” She doesn’t wait for a response, just titters to refill John’s half-empty brew with a more hot water, as well as providing a fresh slice of boysenberry with a golden, perfectly-crafted crust on top. “But then she wouldn’t be as open to playing bridge on Thursdays if I do.” Mrs. Hudson sighs wearily. “My heart is too fragile for such dramatics. Well, at least to most of them.”

 

John smiles politely, shoving another fork towards his mouth to avoid speaking another word. He had no idea what exactly _to_ say. He’s glad that Mrs. Hudson provides enough conversation for the both of them.

 

He does try to pay attention for the most of it, but he ends up staring blankly on the wall where Mrs. Hudson had been clearing up her spices to keep up the facade of attentiveness.

 

“- and that young man had been different ever since he got back from his trip in Oklahoma. Oh, what I’d do to get him out that ruddy house once in awhile.” She angles her head towards the staircase, sighing. “So sad.”

 

“Er..” He tries.

 

“But he wouldn’t even let me take care of him, just insisted that he would be fine by himself, that he didn’t need me to be feeding him up all the time.” She takes a seat across from John, stroking one of his forearms in soothing traces. And for some reason, he neither felt the need to rip her hand away from the contact, nor had he any inkling to bolt, and forget about this whole encounter altogether. “I’d believe him if he hadn’t been as thin as a rake, but I couldn’t deny him his privacy, even as much as I wanted to.”

 

John nods. He knew the feeling.

 

“So now, I drop by from time-to-time with some homemade meals, and a bit of leftovers. Sometimes some sweets from the new recipe books that I’ve been gifted by friends, and old flames.” Out of nowhere, she blinks away from her reverie, realizing John’s presence for the first time. “Oh, silly me. I’ve been talking about myself this whole time. I sure do hope that I haven’t bore you yet with my silly going ons?”

 

John’s brain short-circuits for a second, trying to search for the right words that wouldn’t sound at all offending. Had he really been so out of practice with socializing that he couldn’t even formulate words properly?

 

“No.” He trails off, trying not to sound too awkward with the response, but failing completely.

 

“Anyways, I see you’re looking for some lodgings.” She waves towards his coach bag. “Are you perhaps interested in renting a spot upstairs?”

 

“I -” His mouth gapes open for a second. Had he been _that_ obvious?

 

“Oh my, I’ve known that boy too long that I’m doing it too.” She scolds herself lightly. “Sorry, John.” she amends. “It’s just you were wearing too much jumpers, and the huge bag, I’d have thought that you were looking for a place to stay for a bit.”

 

“Well, you weren’t wrong about that.” He admits unsurely. “I -” He bites on the corner of his lip, contemplating whether he should make her aware of his situation.

 

Thankfully, she smiles, shaking her head.

 

“You don’t have to tell me, of course.” She chirps, insistent. “I know people have their own reasons, and I’ve no right to ask that of you.”

 

John shakes his head, smiling morosely.

 

“No, it’s...fine.” Scooping out another spoonful of pie, he continues needing to change the subject as fast as he could. “Besides, doesn’t he have friends, family maybe? It wouldn’t hurt to hang out with someone who cares about you to make a bloke feel better.”

 

To that, Mrs. Hudson smooths an invisible wrinkle from her dress. She looked more sad than uncomfortable, and John had the slight urge to capture this woman into a hug.

 

“He refuses to see any family, especially his brother.” She sighs as though the she’s recalling a fond memory. “And I’ve no knowledge of any friends that he willingly talks to..well..there was this nice detective inspector, but when he comes, Sherlock - that’s his name by the way - he...he never really reacts like he used to, even during the most interesting cases.”

 

As much as the name Sherlock had an odd-sounding ring to it, he was stuck with the feeling of empathy - due to his current situation - as well as inquisitive wonder over what he’s learned about the phantom figure whom Mrs. Hudson absolutely adores.

 

“Poor sod,” John refuses to allow himself the moment of vulnerability. Especially in front of a person who he barely knew, but notices the feeling seep through his tone, all rough around the edges. He swallows down some of his lukewarm tea. “If he had just one person, someone who understands him, then I think he’ll be right as day soon enough.”

 

At the words, Mrs. Hudson gets this look on her face; he’s not sure whether it had been the trick of the light, but she looked positively aloof, yet with a twinkle of _something_ that John’s not sure how to interpret. He wasn't sure whether to take note of it for future reference, or just to dismiss it altogether. Either way, he’s had his fill of snacks, and he really should have began navigating around the nearest area to kip in for the night by now.

 

“Look, It’s been -”

 

“Didn’t you say you were looking for a flat?” Mrs. Hudson almost jumps from her seat as she says this.

 

“Er, yes, but -”

 

“Then why don’t you stay here for a while?” She offers. “I could give you a special deal, if you’re interested.”

 

“Um, I don’t think it’s -” John was more baffled than embarrassed. The flat in itself looked to be three-times the size of what his pension could afford. He sincerely doubts that he’d be able to manage even a reduced price, especially when it’s located in central London. “I mean, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure if I could -”

 

“Nonsense!” She quips, latching on to his arm, urging him to stand. Which he did, albeit acquiescently. “It’s plenty late now to locate a place that would take you in all willy-nilly. You could stay here until you’ve decided on a spot..”

 

“Mrs. Hudson, I don’t think - Don’t you think it’s taking advantage of your generosity by allowing me to stay?” And although the offer had sounded full-proof, he still can’t resist thinking about how terribly wrong this whole thing could lead to, no matter how much he’d been tempted.

 

“Not at all.” She beams, still refusing to acknowledge John’s reluctance. “In fact, I’ve always been looking for someone to be a taste tester for my new recipes, especially when I’ve a baking contest to win.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” Uh. He can’t think of another word to string together to indicate his refusal. However, she looked adamant, and who was John to refuse such an elderly woman who was willing to help him. It’d have been entirely hypocritical if he did. “I - when do I start?”

 

And there was nothing brighter than Mrs. Hudson when she smiles like the Afghan sun.

 

“Excellent! We’ll get you settled in a room and no time.”

 

-

 

He had been staying in 221B for a week before there came a day where he catches wind of sobbing from Mrs. Hudson. He had no idea what that cause might’ve been, nevertheless that doesn’t exactly stop him from tucking his service gun beneath his jumper and the front of his jeans.

 

“Mrs. Hudson…?” He peeks a cautious head in, only to discover that Mrs. Hudson had been sniffling on a box of tissues, her eyes puffy, and nose a slightly reddish tint.

 

“Oh, John dear.” She jumps from her position, reeling him in the kitchen, and seating him towards his regular seat. “You won’t believe it, but my sister just called about being sick.”

 

“Did she tell you what symptoms she might have?” John inquires, immediately thinking of the most possible diagnosis available to his knowledge. “Maybe I could help?”

 

“No.” She states quickly. “What I meant was that, no, she hates doctors, so I end up taking care of her till she gets better."

 

“Well, if you could possibly tell me what she’s exhibiting, then maybe I could -”

 

“Nonono.” She replies with a bit more force than normal, which caught John’s attention. “She says that she’ll only be willing to see a doctor if it gets any worst. And she is adamant that I come with her for that.”

 

“Oh.” John slumped onto the back of his seat. “Then what about the baking contest trial runs that I’ve been tasting for the past week?”

 

“Well, maybe I could just join next year.” She decides, humming to herself. “She wants me to be there by tomorrow.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson -”

 

“But then poor Sherlock wouldn’t have anyone around to get him to eat. He’ll starve!” She’s already moving furiously, grabbing a pre-prepared night bag by her slippers.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, please -”

 

“That simply could not do.” She paces back and forth before settling her eyes on John. “John, you’re still unemployed, correct?”

 

“Well -” He was planning to send in more of his resume to any available medical institutions tonight, after he and Mrs. Hudson had prepared another batch of confectioneries, and different types of pastries, as well as going for another round of groceries for his meal in the next few days.

 

“Good god! You could do it! You can keep an eye on him for a while, won’t you John?” And if he felt the least bit uncomfortable with the changes, he doesn’t voice it out loud.

 

“Well, if there’s really nothing we could do, then I would be more than willing.” Dear god, when has he been this accepting of the complete turn of events.

 

“Fantastic!” She pecks the sides of his cheek, already heading towards the door.

 

“But wait, Mrs. Hudson. I’m not sure where to -”

 

She pauses for a mere second, beaming up at him, reaching for the rest of her luggage that had been conveniently been tucked under the seat by the door, and an extra key.

 

“Don’t worry, John.” She croons understandingly. “His brother always has a car available for me to use. Haven’t you seen the black vehicle by the door, dear?”

 

“Uh -” He’s always assumed that somebody uses that car on a day-to-day basis. “I’m not exactly sure he’ll allow me to -”

 

“Don’t worry about it, John.” She thumps at her chest lightly, radiating absolute triumph. “I had called in earlier to notify that you’ll be going in my place for the time being. You understand, don’t you?”

 

Sadly he does. A nod would suffice.

 

“Also, don’t forget to bring your luggage, as well as all the food stocked in the fridge. Wouldn’t want to be hungry on the way, won’t we?” And she was gone with a flourish within seconds.

 

What has he gotten himself into this time?

 

-

 

True to her word, John had finished packing every meal in Mrs. Hudson’s fridge. Everything had varied from sweets (such as cupcake, truffles, etc), to hardy meals (like baked beans with potatoes, shepherd's pie, and other things of her own concoction), as well as side dishes like salad, and some fresh green beans with carrots, sprinkled with nuts (cashews?). He wasn’t really sure how much of it she had intended to go to this Sherlock person, but if Mrs. Hudson would not be in Baker Street for a while (though she never confirmed exactly how long she’d be gone), she wouldn’t have wanted for anything to spoil, which is why he decided to take the whole stock.

 

He had just locked the door to the entrance with a large cooler (that he doubts Mrs. Hudson would mind he bring with him) to keep the food fresh, when he sees a man from the mysterious black car got out from where he sat in the driver’s seat to hold the car door open. He wore a plain black suit, white polo, spotless black oxfords shoes, as well as dark - albeit rather plain - sunglasses (though he’s not exactly sure _why_ that would be, considering the sun hadn’t been out in the first place in this time of year). He doesn’t say a word through John’s staring, just waits until he hobbles inside, before clicking the door to a close.

 

John, ever the soldier, tenses as soon as the car began moving. It was a good thing that he brought along his luggage with him, along with his service army gun tucked beneath his toiletries, and a swiss army knife in its sheath tucked within his leather hiking boots that he wore for the occasion (just in case there are mountains, or rough terrain in the location he’s going to). He wasn’t being paranoid. Though having the weapon close grounded him to reality.

 

“Any chance you can tell me where I’m going?” He politely inquires.

 

The driver at front doesn’t make any form of acknowledgement that he heard anything at all.

 

John frowns, crossing his arms, whilst eyeing the window. Well, this is going to be quite an interesting ride.

 

-

 

Two hours in, John began to see a lengthy distance between London, and wherever their destination is located. It was a good call in his part to have considered bringing heavy duty clothes with him on the first day; safety first

 

“Sir, we’re here.”

 

The bloke points out when they came to a stop in front of a pale cottage that’s surrounded by moss on top with white flowers decorating it, and distinctly coloured plants of varying sizes that were managed in ornate potted plants. The entry they’ve just passed through is decorated with alternating gray and dark tiles leading to the front of the cottage, and an archway of vines strewn neatly that to lead to the front door.

 

John gives the man a brief nod, tracing every detail with his eyes, before standing right by the front area to give three precise knocks. No answer. He knocks thrice more. And again, no answer. He gives the door knob a few turns, and yet he’s still locked in. John glances towards his previous point of entry to hopefully catch the driver and ask him how to get in, when he realizes that he’s already been deserted. He could attempt on scaling the wall, but he doubts he could get very far with it anyway (with his height being 5’6, and the large distance between each window, and a lack of climbing equipment to provide support). He also has the opportunity of climbing over the fence connecting that the backyard (chances are there could be a more cooperative door to allow him entry), but he doesn’t want to risk snagging himself on those pointy plants that grew out to be blades in leaf form. So naturally, breaking-and-entering is the more likely - and not to mention - only solution for his dilemma.

 

He sighs, placing all of his luggage and other things to a nearby wall, stepping back about 10 meters, before charging for the door. The wood splinters within a few jabs to it with his elbow, and he suddenly finds himself in Old England: the walls were covered in teal, intricate designs that needed restoring, which then transitioned seamlessly to faded brick wall tiles that most likely lead to the kitchen. The furniture themselves appear to be mismatched, ranging from modern, to baroque, to victorian. The walls had large bookshelves that stuck from all corners, littered with varying books titled of eccentric taste. Along those books are pages on pages of hand-written journals that specified 243 types of tobacco ash, to different tensile strengths of distinct natural fibres. Wow. Whoever this Sherlock bloke must be, he must have a lot of free time being able to carry out such detailed study in esoteric topics in loopy chicken scratches that are surprisingly legible.

 

“Hello?” He calls out, looking around the area. “Anybody here?” And to no avail, he receives not a squeak of reply.

 

After searching the entire first floor, John was able to locate a set of staircase, leading him to the second floor - an extension of the first floor with its decor - a wide area that composed of more rooms to explore. He picks a random one, deciding on the closest door, only to discover a broom closet. He sighs, picking the one to the left of it, but found that it was locked. His impaired judgement had lead him to about three rooms that had: different type of comical outfits, another separate book collection, and a well-managed office. It was only until he hears a slight creak on the wooden floors that weren’t his own that he got to work. Almost hastily, John follows the sound, leading him to the master bedroom.

 

At first, what caught his eyes, was how dark the room was. He could still see most of the things in the space, knowing that he went there early morning, so there wouldn’t have been any reason for John to be able to stumble on furniture like it was  night time. Ambling towards the single window with thick, black curtains, he pries the large thing open, instantly brightening the whole room. Now, he could see a queen sized bed by the far center of the wall, a single wooden closet, and what appeared to be a long line of family pictures in chronological order. He decides to avoid snooping, fearing that he’s breached the lad’s privacy by looking at familial photos without his permission. But other than well-maintained furniture, the room had been empty, so where had the sound originated from?

 

Before he could decide to phone in Mrs. Hudson, John notices a ragged-looking door just slightly hidden by one of the furniture. Swallowing down the apprehension towards what may have lurked on the other side, he trots towards the said door, examining every corner, and realizing the detritus around it. With growing curiosity getting the best of him, he immediately sees green, and not just a single discernible colour, but also a streak of gold, and a splash of _blueblueblue_. He hadn’t realize that he’d been staring, until he realizes that the man who donned a fresh crisp white shirt and slim-fitting pants that half-sat on a chaise sofa had not made a single movement upon John’s entry. Just remained still, unseeing, with half of his face resting on the heel of his left hand, and the right one faced palm up, bony, pallid wrist matching the illuminating thin sheet of light that reflected from the windows. The last thing for John to notice was the cheekbones (or had it been the first?); how detailed, and sharp they have been, and those pink, cupid bow lips that remained relaxed, almost like they were merely painted on.

 

“Excuse me?” He takes a step closer, taking note of how the man had not moved an inch ever since the intrusion. He squints slightly, trying to make out an expression out of the said face, but saw nothing but aloofness, and darkened edges. “Are you alright?” He asks again, close enough that he could see that the bloke hadn’t been breathing.

 

Immediately, John’s fingers drift towards the closest wrist, clinically searching for a sign of a pulse. He feels the thrum of the heart beat, slow and steady, before it spikes, and realize the pale eyes looking directly at him with no signs of emotion whatsoever, just sat there, clutching the wrist close to his chest, breathing more frequently as though he attended a 20-kilometre run.

 

He doesn’t speak at all, just scans every corner of John from his face, all the way down to his feet, then back again, almost like he’s scanning. Scanning for something, maybe everything. There had never came a time where he’d felt so naked being under someone’s scrutiny.

 

“I’m, um, sorry.” John mumbles, blowing air up to his slightly shaggy hair. “I - you weren’t answering me when I called for you, and you didn’t look like you were breathing, so I thought -” I should check whether you’d been alive or not.

 

Sherlock (?) still hasn’t said anything, just regards John as he would a plain, singular-purpose object: disconnected, and unassuming. What he does notice though is that the bloke hadn’t been breathing as frequently as he’d had have done a minute ago, and his posture seems to relax a centimetre onto the chair.

 

“Weapon, diminish your weapon, Doctor.” The voice requests in a deep tenor, his voice indistinctly shaky, and hesitant almost. “Please.”

 

John furrows his brow, withdrawing the sheathed knife from its location, and sliding it towards the bloke, who picked it up the moment it connected with one of his bare foot that touched the floor. He clutches at it almost possessively, eyes raking over every crevice, every curve, every bump, every ridge, and then repeat. This whole process went on for about another few long minutes before the bloke was satisfied with his find, tucking the knife on the back cushions, and readjusting himself so that it had been fully covered by his thigh.

 

Taking silence as an opportunity, John coughs away the nerves as he speaks.

 

“Do you happen to be Sherlock Holmes?”

 

The bloke mirrors John’s expression, lips pursed.

 

“Might I inquire you of why I should be answering inane quiry of identity from a stranger who primarily broke into one’s cottage?”

 

Well, he’s gotten him at that one. However, that wasn’t what came out of his mouth.

 

“How did you know that?” And he knows he’s overstepping boundaries, but he simply needed to know. All he’s gotten from Mrs. Hudson’s stories was this bloke in front of him is the world’s only consulting detective (a profession that Sherlock had invented for himself) who’s able to see through anyone, and tell them their life’s story in seconds. “About the weapon, about the doctor part, and me breaking into your flat?”

 

“Unimportant.” The bloke responds, rolling his eyes. Nevertheless, he had this focused tilt on both corners, like he had been debating on what to say. “Though I should remind you that normal people are unable to rapidly check for one’s pulse unless they are at the prime of their profession. Could’ve been a nurse, but doctor seemed to be the more likely occupation. Additionally, keeping weapons within one’s own boot is permissible, but be sure that it would be one to two sizes larger than your normal ones to avoid unnatural bumps for future detection, and as to why you have yet to realize the wooden splinters that sprinkled one arm of your jumper, and visible dust on the ends of your hair leads me to believe the even in present time, humanity needs immense development when it comes with simple observations.”

 

And although the deduction had been spoken between contemplative pauses, and unrelenting factuality, he realizes now that it should have been more obvious it had been from the start. Nevertheless, that doesn’t really stop the tell-tale deductions to be anything less than remarkable. He’s only heard of the infamous detective through some old newspaper clippings, and headlines apart from Mrs. Hudson’s narrations, but the experience had been nothing short of wonderful when one had been on the receiving end of it.

 

“Fantastic!” He crows, beaming towards the bloke in unrestrained reverence. “Brilliant, even. And you got that just from one look?” John shakes his head, smiling down on the floor, then meeting Sherlock’s eyes, noticing them widen in surprise. He feels a phantom burn on the tips of his ears. “I think I might be impressed, Mr. Holmes.”

 

The response came timidly, unsurely.

 

“I - Sherlock, please. I would answer to nothing else.”

 

“Sherlock, then.” John repeats, smile still in place. How he hasn’t yet botched up the whole encounter altogether is a bit startling, noting offhandedly the thin sheet of perspiration that coated his hand. “I’ve read about you in some of Mrs. Hudson’s old cutouts, and saw your website. Can you really identify an engine pilot by his left thumb?”

 

Sherlock’s chin jerks out defensively, obviously miffed by the question.

 

“Of course I can.” He insists brazenly, with a little bit more force. “And I could read military training by your face, and your brother’s drinking habit from your mobile phone.”

 

To which John gapes.

 

“How?!”

 

But Sherlock only briefly smirks.

 

“I would provide you with an answer, should you begin holding your end of the bargain.” Then. “Seeing as you’re familiar with Mrs. Hudson, you can begin from there.”

 

John chuckles lowly, if a bit strained.

 

“Well, it’s a bit of a funny story, actually -” And he finds his wrist being dragged towards the seat Sherlock sat on, finding himself perched closely to the the detective, the distance between them no more than 10, maybe 15 centimetres. He could smell the hint of musk beneath the posh-smelling perfume (was it perfume? Or had he recently taken a shower? Whatever it was, it smelt divine), and found it slightly arousing, which does nothing for brain work, not when the bloke’s sharp gaze is focused entirely on him.

 

What had been surprising, however, was that he had yet to tackle the bloke like he’d expected himself to. In fact, even just about month after being deported back to London in a helipad, he couldn’t get himself to relinquish his year’s worth of unfortunate reflexes no matter how much vexing therapy he’d been receiving (he fired her in the end, ta very much), so this is quite a pleasant change. What makes this bloke so different? He’s certainly not much different from anyone John’s ever met, though it could be debatable with his alien-like features, and foreign vibe that he’s yet to decipher.

 

Sherlock huffs, rapidly tapping one of his free hands on the handle closest to him, but doesn’t speak another word. Just sort of studies him with barely concealed annoyance, like it’s taking every fibre of his being to sit still and wait.

 

“My past sty had been, well, compromised and let’s just say that Mrs. Hudson had offered me a special deal to help her.”

 

“Special deal?” Sherlock echoes, raising a brow. The distance still palpable between the two of them. “How do you mean?”

 

John laughs again (and that’s been happening a lot, hadn’t it?), looking away towards the corner of the room (or...dresser more like).

 

“Well, she’s got, like, a baking thing a few weeks from now, and she’s been letting me sample them, and provide my honest opinion.” It took him a second to recognize how ridiculous it might’ve sounded. “I-I know it’s not exactly enough compensation for my meagre -”

 

Sherlock holds a hand up in refute.

 

“As much as I appreciate the sentimental aspect of this story, I’d rather you condense, and extrapolate it to what had occurred - the facts, if you may. Self-pity is a mere residual byproduct of guilt and shame, something that I’ve no tolerance for. Now go on, Mr. Watson: continue.”

 

He couldn’t be bothered to hide his surprise.

 

“How did you know my name -”

 

“Your phone, now do go on.” He replies easily, though it was obvious that he momentarily basked on John’s shock more than anything else. “I believe you’re about to tell me how you got yourself roped - requested..” He blinks away his embarrassment, chewing on his lower lip for a second. “I meant requested - silly me, they are so alike to the other with both of them... starting with the letter ‘j’ - how did you come to staying in 221, and be lead by the Queen’s guards in here?”

 

Now that got John’s attention.

 

“Queen’s guards? What do you mean by -”

 

“Facile.” Sherlock amends, smoothing out an invisible crease on his trousers. “Now, if you please.”

 

“Well, I went on, and offered more of my help, noticing that her time had been mostly spent in her kitchen, cooking up a month’s worth of food. Of course, I got a taste of some of them, and they were later boxed up in the fridge, and Mrs. Hudson had asked me to bring meals here, to make sure that you eat every single bite. So, here we are…” He wasn’t quite sure how to go on.

 

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, pinching at the bridge.

 

“And how exactly was it decided for one to carry on the task she had assigned solely to herself?” To John’s confusion, he rolls his eyes, providing more details. “Mrs. Hudson seldom changes routine, so what happened that changed everything?”

 

“Er..” John took a minute to gather himself, continuing. “Well, just very recently she got a phone call from her sister. Said that she needed Mrs. Hudson’s support during her time of ailment. Mrs. Hudson offered to pack up and go over to her sister’s just until she’s better, or at a least catatonic state.”

 

“So, she asked of you to relieve her of her duties?” Sherlock surmises, looking astonished himself, and a tiny bit impressed, judging by the tiny lift of the corner of his mouth that he directs to nobody in particular. “And she hasn’t provided you with details about her current length of stay at her sister’s, where it’s located, and what type of illness her sister might’ve been exhibiting?”

 

“No.” John thinks for a moment. “She says that she’d rather find out when she gets there, and her sister had always been afraid of being treated by doctors, so I couldn’t have provided my medical help.” Even if it was available.

 

Sherlock’s eyes glazes over, lost in thought. He then hops to a standing position, eyeing the rusack that has fallen to the floor, skirting over the large cooler, and handing it to John.

 

“These items are not nearly enough for the length of your stay. See to it that you procure a pair of winter gloves, three different variations of scarves by their wool quality ratio, as well as a thicker coat by tomorrow.”

 

“But, I’m not sure if I -”

 

“Here, take my card.” Sherlock nudges a black card with only silver digits carved on it. “I’m sure the fat git had already been spewing out plans for your extended stay the moment you’ve taken on Mrs. Hudson’s endeavor. Might as well reap its benefits whilst you still can.”

 

“Wait, what, I can’t just take -” But Sherlock’s already pushing him with purpose down the hall, and onto the front door within a matter of seconds. “You can’t just expect me to use your credit card to buy myself new things!”

 

“Of course not.” Sherlock affirms with a curt nod. “But seeing as you’re to be my housekeeper for a bit, you might as well look the part.”

 

“But that’s not how uniforms actually work, Sherlock!” John points out indignantly, when the bloke pushes him towards open doors of the car he could’ve sworn have not been there earlier. “And Mrs. Hudson didn’t mention anything about -” And the door closes in an instant, which left John roughly a minute to get himself to calm down, before considering on buckling himself in.

 

He sighs.

 

What has he gotten himself into?

 

-

 

With a glare protruding out of his eye sockets, John wills himself to turn away the moment the total had cashed in. He hadn’t spent anything close to that in his lifetime. Ever. But Sherlock had insisted that he get quality items, no matter the price (and yes, he literally took a photo of the bloke’s text, testifying for itself - as to how he had gotten John’s number had still been a mystery, and remained unanswered), realizing that John had lacked actual information regarding his stay. Doesn’t exactly stop him from asking all sorts of questions. First of all:

 

“How were you so sure that I’d return your card, let alone buy the things you basically manhandled me me out the patio for?”

 

Sherlock had been lounging on the only reclining chair in the first floor the moment John had made his entry. He looked effortlessly put together with a meticulously-framed suit, a tight-fitting button up, and pointy black shoes, scribbling some things onto a notebook without looking up.

 

He hums in acknowledgement, though avoiding providing any viable answer.

 

“Sherlock.” He half-hisses, anticlimactically dropping the luggage that he owned, which created a loud smack on the wooden flooring.

 

At the sound, Sherlock refocuses his attention to the floor, in the sight of luggages, then to John.

 

He wasn’t exactly sure whether it had happened, or whether it had been fiction altogether, but he thinks he sees Sherlock’s face reassembling: transitioning from extreme boredom, and… indecipherably...jaded, to a calculating, albeit softer strain to the corners of his eyes, his mouth. He still hasn’t spoken yet, but after his first meeting with the bloke, he felt that although the scrutiny had been uncomfortable, it wasn’t exactly unwelcomed… god he sounds like a bloody teenager again. This has got to stop. He’s barely known the bloke, and he’s already lusting for him from afar.

 

“I see you haven’t brought your cane.” Sherlock replies instead, eyeing the leg with complete fascination. “You did get shot didn’t you?” He speaks almost shyly from under thick lashes, which only served to fuel John’s will when he dies from pent up release. He’s got to get himself a bloody girlfriend once he settles to a permanent fixture, and not be obligated to relocate every few weeks. Not that he wouldn’t be open to dating Sherlock, but...well..it’s complicated. And it’s also been a while.

 

He hums, realizing that he was expected to answer, providing a quick affirmation of his recent injury on the shoulder. Once the whole message had been translated in his brain, his first reaction had been to panic. Why had he forgotten his cane? He never leaves without it, so what changed? Would he suffer the lost, once his brain realises that he was meant to be a no-good cripple with shaky hands? Or had this just been a terribly good distraction, that once he’s rid of it, he would never again taste the life before his injury, before that sniper had stolen his only chance in staying for the entirety of his military career? There was just too many factors to think about, and he doesn’t notice that he’s kneeling on the floor, until he sees Sherlock’s version of what had appeared to be concern. Well, it looked to be more close to Sherlock’s intense focus: eyes searching every bit of John’s face for any signs of a all-telling emotions, with a furrow on his brow, but he does appreciate the effort.

 

“‘H’” The bloke finally says, speaking in a clumsy tone, unsure, with a bit of tremor at the end that he had no idea how to interpret. “John _H._ Watson. What does the ‘H’ stand for? Humphrey?”

 

And all of a sudden, he finds himself bursting into unrestrained laughter. He wasn’t exactly sure what brought the whole question on, but hearing the non-sequitur just threw him directly out of the dark woods of his mind, and back to their current reality.

 

Sherlock, proper detective Sherlock, who is able to regularly read people at a glance looked confused. In fact, he looked...well..like an overgrown toddler who was out of their depth, lips formed to a mercurial pout. His eyes echoed a whole range of interpretations such as: actual confusion, petulance, and offense (though John thinks that it might not be directly related to him, but he could be wrong), which made the situation all the more amusing when he picks himself up from his place on the floor, patting at his bum for any form of excess detritus.

 

“Do I even need to ask, or will you tell me anyway?”

 

Sherlock makes a weird grunt, narrowing his eyes.

 

“I don’t need to tell you anything. In fact, contrary to popular belief, silence is key to defeating one’s enemies.” He mumbles all this, finding the floor more interesting than the person in front of him.

 

John had the urge to laugh at the innocence that strung along the bloke’s words, but there had been a better part of him - the more rational one - who is vaguely aware of what trouble his amusement could provide, and decided against it. He could save any sort of mockery for when they know each other better, he decides.

 

“Well you don’t have to tell me..” He confirms, choosing his words slowly, earnestly. “Doesn’t mean that I’m not interested on how you could’ve lead to finding out my name without having to hint any of it out.” Then for good measures. “I am already aware for your brilliance, which is why I’m interested in knowing.” And if that had felt like some sort of marriage proposal, then he supposes he could leave out the part where his whole head had flamed into a harsh reddish colour. “Think of it, as some sort of icing to a cake, maybe?” Dear god, the evident crack in his voice had been no way intentional.

 

Sherlock looked indecisive for a moment, alternating from gaping his mouth that’s equivalent to a goldfish to a firm line, as if reconsidering his words.

 

“John,” He decides after...maybe... ten minutes? “I’m.. not really looking for anything monumental at the moment, and although I’m flattered that you’d -”

 

“No, no, I - no, I wasn’t intending to, no.” Can flames get any more hotter when you’re engorged in them? The answer is yes. “I mean, I -” but he wasn’t really sure how to continue the sentence without likening himself to a fool. “It wasn’t like I had expectations or anything, if that was what you were wondering.” Dear lord, he’s already began sinking in quicksand. “I mean, if you’re fine with me staying here for a while in place of Mrs. Hudson, then-then it’s fine, it’s all fine.”

 

He thinks he heard a small relieved “thank you” from Sherlock, but he partly realizes two things: Sherlock hadn’t been where John’s seen him three seconds ago, and he’s not sure whether he did something wrong or not.

 

He finds that he had no choice but to trail blindly at this point.

 

-

 

When he’s reached a point of the cloying stinge of carbon monoxide working its way up his esophagus does he decide to approach Sherlock outside the front porch, burning what appeared to be posters with a single blow torch.

 

“ _What_ are you doing?” He scrambles to grab ahold of one, stomping at where the flames currently teased at the corners. “Couldn’t you just do something more...eco-friendly with your experiments?”

 

Sherlock sets another one on fire.

 

“Sherlock!” He measures the bloke with an even-leveled stare. “What exactly are you trying to get from doing this? Another forest fire? You are aware that the fire department would be up on your case for being the cause of another demolished forest.”

 

The detective lights a cigarette with the blowtorch, fragments of blue and orange flames plopping down the ground and diminishing.

 

“If you must know; I’m measuring the rate of incineration for posters from different countries, and see if one would burn faster than the other.” A long string of smoke winds loosely around them before dissipating.

 

John furrows his brow in thought.

 

“But wouldn’t the one who’s closer to poverty use cheaper materials for their posters?”

 

Sherlock hums, sighing a breath of vapour.

 

“That had been my initial hypothesis, of course.” John repeats the last two words. “However, when compared in its stretchability, and overall strength, one made from a less-resourceful country provided a better resistance than the ones made in the Western world.” He inhales more fumes. “Also, we’re technically in the middle of nowhere, John.” His eyes staring into the distance. “It’s highly doubtful that we could provide anymore lasting damages to nature than what our ancestors, and manufacturing factories have already managed.”

 

“That... sounds awfully morbid.” John adds in.

 

“Accurate, you mean?” Questions Sherlock, raising a brow.

 

“I do.” Sherlock opens his mouth to probably ask about what he meant, however he beats him to it. “But..” He meanders towards a random tree, Sherlock hot on his heels. His eyes drift towards the ground, rifling through a copious amount of weeds, and locating a young seedling, just barely piercing the ground. “If you’ve been in the desert as long as I have, you start to miss these kind of things, nature, mostly the colour of life, I don’t know.” One of his shoulders lift to a shrug, heading back to where Sherlock had a table out for all the posters, with an ill-looking branch as paperweight, the clot.

 

Sherlock follows shortly after, hands covered with a brush of dirt, eyes content. He stares at John with a curious glow to them, the stick of cigar hanging from one corner of his mouth.

 

John smiles at the ground before snatching the death stick right from its source, squishing it with his shoe onto the pavement, and heading back towards the cottage. Before he could get a foot inside, he pauses by the doorway.

 

“Light another one of those, and I’ll lock you out.” He threatens, smirking even though Sherlock couldn’t see. The door makes a soft click as he enters.

 

-

 

A strike of lightning flashes, synchronizing with every gunshot, the metallic tang of blood familiar to his nostrils. The fallen soldiers were screaming for him.

 

_Captain!_

 

 _Captain! ASAP! ASAP! CO DOWN! I REPEAT!_ **_CO DOWN_ ** _!_

 

_There’s nothing we can do! You’d have to hack it, Captain._

 

_Cavalry is coming! Stay with us Cap’n!_

 

Eventually, the ringing pressure in his ears intensifies, his heart thumping out of his chest. He sees it coming the moment he turns his head, realizing the soldier had hidden himself behind solid coverage to get a clear shot. It began with the burning sensation, and ended with blood. His head was spinning, his vision distorting. The sound of an oncoming grenade passes his ears. He didn’t care whether he was on the brink of death, he immediately commands his brigade to prepare themselves.

 

**_HIT THE DECK!_ **

 

He wakes up from his dream, most of his outfit drenched, breath coming in short gasps. It took him a few breathing techniques to get his heart rate back to normal, but it’s highly unlikely for John to consider going back to sleep. Deciding that he needed a good shower, he immediately sets off, fresh clothes on hand, bolting towards the showers.

 

Emerging with nice-scented clothes, he sets off towards his room, realizing that it remained open.

 

“Huh,” He silently muses. “I was sure that I had this thing closed.”

 

Just as he enter his room, he immediately picks up on another presence inside the area. Blindly finding his army gun, he sets off to apprehend the intruder who stood by his bed. A thunder clashes near his window, temporarily flashing a bright light that revealed a familiar lumpy shape about a foot taller than John. With a tired sigh, he slides the safety back into place, and storing his gun back from where it was hidden.

 

“Sherlock, what the hell, what are you doing in here?” He reaches to flick his lamp open to realize that one, Sherlock is still dressed in his sleep clothing, and two, he had a pillow stuck to his chest, face buried onto the material. Although they’ve fought earlier about Sherlock nearly electrocuting him, he still couldn’t deny the satisfaction to see his friend, no matter how initially irritated he was for the incident earlier, and the breach of personal space now. In fact, he might even boldly admit that he enjoyed having the detective around, no matter the situation.

 

The first thing that John thought when Sherlock hadn’t responded was that the latter sleep-walked. Agile with his steps, he leads Sherlock’s unassuming body through the door with every intention to lead him back to his bedroom, only to get an insistent tug towards his shirt that got him halting.

 

“Sherlock, you are awake, aren’t you?”

 

Sherlock nods mutely, refusing to walk another step.

 

“Then what are you doing skulking around my bedroom you silly nutter?” He atrociously sounded fond when he says this. “Go on, off you go. You’ve got to get your sleep.”

 

The grip Sherlock had on the hem of his shirt never eases.

 

“Sherlock, seriously.” He sighs, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart. “You said that you wanted to try your knack in hiking tomorrow. Did you not want to go?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head.

 

“No as in you want to go, or no as in -” He cuts himself off when Sherlock tugs at his shirt again, but more insistently. Bargaining the variables in his head, he acquiesces, allowing his friend to lead him back to his bed - which stayed thankfully dry - pushing him softly until he’s sat at the edge. Sherlock then trots slowly towards the other side, standing close to where a pillow is located, and suddenly he understood the intent.

 

“Sherlock, you have your own bed, you can’t just -” He stops himself in his tracks when Sherlock buries his face closer to the pillow he held, and remaining adamantly still. Wiping a tired hand on his face, he opens the comforter for his friend to enter through. Sherlock jumps to comply, tucking himself within the confines of warm sheets. John moves to get up, only to feel his friend yank him back towards the bed. “Sherlock, don’t be silly, we can’t just sleep on the same bed.” It wasn’t exactly a complaint in his part, more like a wary statement.

 

Sherlock yanks again without having to stare at John at all, his face still hidden on the pillow.

 

Not knowing whether his friend was joking, he sighs, allowing himself to be tugged back to bed. Timidly, he reaches towards his lamp, flicking it to a close. The darkness surrounds them in an instant.

 

Settling himself on his side, heart beating out of his ribcage, John focuses on closing his eyes, and attempting to find traces of sleep that he’d been lacking. Sherlock still hasn’t said a word, but judging by his breathing, he’s just as aware of the ongoing silence that’s drifted between them.

 

“You know, this situation sort of reminds me of when me and Harry were kids.” He spouts, recalling fond memories when he and his sister could tolerate being in the same room without having to initiate childhood resentments and arguments. He knows that Sherlock would tell him to stop if anything got too boring. “She was scared of the thunder, you see. Not like you, I don’t think.” He continues, slightly wishing for his friend to break through this facade, wishing for him to insert clever remarks during his narrative. “You know, you can just tell me to stop any time. Just say the word, and my lips are sealed.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t do that, however, in fact, he scoots closer until he was close enough to have both his head, and pillow pressed towards John’s back. His body visibly melts at the contact, which got John’s pulse up again, which was definitely not good, considering he’s got developing feeling for this insufferable git, and couldn’t get himself to stop.wanting.more.

 

Cold feet meets his calves in a small nudge, probably because John had stopped talking.

 

“And now you listen to me?” He jokes, smirking from his side. “If just sleeping in the same bed would get you to be more attentive, then I would be open to - ow!” He feels a strong jab at his thigh in retribution. “Alright, alright.” He somehow manages to lower his heart rate to only a little bit above average. “Just for that, I’m going to be naming off all rules that would prevent us from dying prematurely, one -”

 

Just when his voice went hoarse from talking about keeping a cleaner kitchen, he hears steady breathing from the detective, indicating that he’d fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of the lecture. Not that John had an ounce of problem about it, he’s glad that Sherlock could fall back asleep. The only problem now, however, is the unsettling warmth on his back. It wasn’t so much about not enjoying it, but rather he enjoyed it too much that he wouldn’t want to leave this bed. Ever.

 

Carefully extricating himself from the bed, he manages to get both feet planted on the floor until the pressure was back to keep him from moving another inch.

 

“I’m going to have to stay here the whole night then, shall I?” he scolds his friend lightly.

 

Expelling air from his lungs for what appeared to be the twentieth time of the evening, John crawls back to his original position without further convincing. Sleep eventually claims him once more.

 

-

 

Days turn to a month, and John doesn’t see much more of the nightmares. It wasn’t like he’d gotten rid of them altogether, just that he doesn’t get much time in his schedule to actually slot them in. Most nights whilst living in 221B, he wakes up screaming his lungs off until he’s incapable of making another peep. Used to scare Mrs. Hudson up-the-bloody-wall that she runs up the steps to his flat, with a baseball bat held shakily beneath her fingertips, heading towards his bedroom.

 

Just a smidge embarrassed, he and Mrs. Hudson have a chat about what had occurred early morning, with John having to confess about what he sees beneath his eyelids, knowing that he’s familiarized himself around her already, and she deserved to know. He also suggests (for the 21st time) that he should just move out - with the foreknowledge that this might not be the last time for this event to occur - keeping in mind that she deserved better than to be stuck with a messed up tenant. However,  Mrs. Hudson - bless her soul - cheekily points out that her initial thought was that he’d been having coitus with a person before she decided to go find him, to which he flushed like a ripened tomato. She also adamantly thwarted off his request (like she always does), claiming that they’ve got all sorts of people around here, and that Mrs. Turner’s got married once. To which John smiled tightly, unfamiliar to her large circle of friends.

 

And now that he’d been living with Sherlock (at least for the time being), the dreams had been happening less frequently. Because although he does dream about gun smoke, and searing pain when bullet met his subclavian area, most days the dreams start to evolve to less distinct individuals, and he awakens without having to recall his dream in vivid detail. Though he doesn’t really question the fact, just accepts it as the new norm.

 

“Any point that you could bring my tea, dear housekeeper.” Sherlock lazily eyes him the corner, spread out like a starfish on the floor with disposable sheets beneath him. He seemed to be stuck on a recent project about the effects of salt water to nail growth, meeting John’s disapproval when asked (demanded more like) him to replicate the experiment, interested in the comparison of results.

 

“Here you go, your majesty.” John rolls his eyes, approaching Sherlock’s spread out form, and carefully placing the smelly concoction coming from Sherlock’s teacup. “This smells horrid, are you sure it hadn’t gone bad already?” John squints at the murky green liquid with squeamish repulsion. “I could go to Tesco’s if you wanted fresh ones, you know?”

 

“Oh, don’t be like that John.” The echo of the words “you special child, you” annoyingly relevant beneath the bloke’s cotton candy tone. John briefly clenches his fist. Of course, Sherlock notices immediately, eyeing John’s feet for a short moment, debating on what he should say next. “I’m -”

 

“No, it’s fine.” John shakes his head, smiling slightly. Leave it to Sherlock to be inexperienced with having to apologize. “I get it.” Taking another cautious glance at the lump that’s already starting to coagulate on the top layer of the brew, he regards the detective curiously. “What’s in here, anyway?”

 

“Nothing big, really.” Sherlock replies airily with a wave of the hand. “Just freshly grown leaves from my garden.” And as an afterthought. “What month is it?”

 

“May.” John answers cautiously, frowning.

 

“Then I believe this is oak.” Sherlock states, sitting up to take a sip of the concoction, nose wrinkling as he does so. “It’s very pungent, and uncomfortable, but I suppose we all have to start from somewhere, correct?”

 

“Wait,” John grabs the mug from Sherlock’s grip, studying the offending brew. “- oak is not green, Sherlock. You know, in case you’ve deleted that information too?”

 

Sherlock hums affirmatively, though he could just be stalling to formulate an appropriate response.

 

John narrows his eyes, searching for anything that might give way to some answers.

 

“This… is not oak, is it?”

 

His companion huffs churlishly, crossing his arms, eyes focused on John’s abandoned brew by the snack table.

 

“Obviously it is.” He began, still unable to make eye contact. “Pray tell, as to why I would possibly deceive you about such trivial matters.”

 

“Sherlock, look at me.” He commands in his best Captain Watson voice. When Sherlock reluctantly does, he starts speaking again. “Is this really oak?”

 

“Yes, John.” The curly haired bloke admits with a nod. “Definitely oak.”

 

John hands back the lad’s brew with a sigh, mumbling a soft “thank jesus”, straightening his posture automatically, and heading towards his own neglected cup.

 

It was after his first sip that he spits it back out in a ghastly spew between his lips.

 

“If, however, you introduce oak with toxins that _may_ be deadly.”

 

And he immediately lunges for the idiot’s neck.

 

-

 

Sherlock was in the middle of dabbing medicinal alcohol to the gash on his lip when John had popped the question that’s been revolving around his head since his arrival.

 

“Why do you still do this?” Get yourself poisoned deliberately, get stung by your own plants. Within an instant, he senses the palpable tenseness in the air. “All these...things..” like the blood splatters, the decapitated limb, and the urine samples. “I thought, I mean, I don’t want to assume anything, but from what I’ve been told, you -”

 

“Get out.”

 

His mind halts for a second, because did he just hear what he thought he’d heard?

 

“What - Sherlock, you can’t possibly be -”

 

“I am.” John couldn’t see his face, but he does note the relevant tightness in the detective’s voice, and vice-like grip (that would surely leave a bruise there on the following day) that coordinated his reluctant body out of the current position they were in by the kitchen. It was then that he knew that he’s immediately gone a step too far.

 

“Sherlock, I -”

 

“Yes, yes, yes. Guilt and shame, I am aware.” Sherlock all but snaps, chest heaving, and hands curling to tight fists that left the knuckles a pale white colour. “It’s all very trite, yes? Emotions? The grit in the lense, the fly in the ointment, the speck on the ceiling.”

 

“Sherlock, let me just - “

 

“Talk? Hardly worth the effort, don’t you think?” The lad sneers, chuckling humourlessly. “In fact, you’ve said quite enough. You’re hardly obligated to say anymore absurd notions, what say you, John Watson?”

 

“But - ” He could feel it now, the bubbling nerves in his stomach, the invisible punctures at where his heart should be. He wanted to apologize for what he said, for what he had initiated, but all he felt was utter dread about asking with the assumption that they knew of each other enough to discuss these things, felt like he’s torn between wanting to comfort his friend, and the desperation to search for more answers. He’s a horrible person, he knows, however, that doesn’t actually stop him from hurting any less.

 

He doesn’t realize that Sherlock’s already gone, until he finds himself seated beside a pretty bird with beautiful reddish-brown locks, fiddling with buttons on her phone. Stop it John. You’re just in shock (possibly), and eyeing women who’s completely out of your league isn’t going to soothe your bruised innards.

 

“Is there any possibility you could tell me where we’re going?” Because this has already deviated from the norm, and he sincerely doubts the change could be nothing short of deliberate planning.

 

The woman flashes John a smile.

 

“Not at all.”

 

And they remained in their respective spaces for the whole car ride, not speaking a word. He doubts he would even be capable anyways, not yet at least.

 

-

 

The moment the tyres screeches to a stop, John is then lead towards a building called the “Diogenes”, and along some doors. Inside, he sees a slightly older man, modestly staunch, and tall in height. He had reddish brown hair, aquiline nose, and the darkest colour of virescent in his eyes with underlying walls of malignance. Currently, he was pouring hot water through a kettle to two ornate cups.

 

“Come in, John.” The bloke speaks, not once paying heed to John’s feet remaining as they were by the threshold of the door. “These scones were especially made to be nibbled on at this hour. Wouldn’t want to spoil Maria’s specialty.”

 

To John’s cold, questioning stare, the man sighs, seating himself so that his torso leaned in with steepled fingertips in front of his chin. Goosebumps rise at the familiarity of the movement. “And should you wish to learn more of our mutual friend’s desolate, murky past, I shall recommend for you to follow through what I have requested, Doctor.”

 

He chews on his lower lip briefly, deciding to cooperate for once, and settling himself quietly under the ministrative gaze. He can already sense that the bloke’s trouble, even at the brief exchange. By kidnapping John, he’s narrowed down the spectrum towards criminal mastermind in spades.

 

“How did you - “ But then he realizes that he’s not really surprised with this bloke, just the feeling of being tipped towards an ocean swarmed with sharks if he so much said the wrong thing. “You know what, I’m already here, aren’t I? Might as well enjoy the free service while I can then.” Though he doesn’t really attempt to move.

 

“Careful, Dr. Watson,” Tall and somewhat threatening warns, an undercurrent of further threats promised beneath each word. “Wouldn’t want to be awaken in some foreign land you wouldn’t care to know, robbed of any chance of survival for nature’s onslaught, now would we?”

 

And something about the bloke’s thinly-veiled threats struck a chord with John, because who the hell did this...this… megalomaniac think he is by continuously trying to threaten him? He may have initially felt frazzled by this man, but now he just couldn’t wait to bless this arsehole with a good punch on the nose. The one and only reason that he’s ever decided to play it nicely for now was because he knew something about Sherlock that John himself did not, and no matter how much he denies it, his interest on the berk appeared to steadily grow through every encounter.

 

“As much as I’d love to play a part in your big production,” John finds himself smirking. “I’d rather you say what you want outright, and I’ll be out of your hair as quickly as I can.”

 

Surprisingly, the adjacent man releases a sharp, brief laugh.

 

“Yes. Well, my sources have come to believe that you’ve recently been in constant contact with one Sherlock Holmes. Might I ask what are your intentions when it comes to my brother?”

 

“Brother?” John shouldn’t have sounded as surprised as he’d felt. “Sherlock is your brother?”

 

“Mycroft Holmes.” He vaguely introduces, offering a hand that John merely stared at before being pulled away, unperturbed.

 

“Now if you please, Mr. Watson.”

 

John furrows his brow, clenching and unclenching his hand that remained on his thighs.

 

“I highly doubt that’s any of your business, now is it?”

 

“Could be debatable.” Mycroft replies, adding 3 sugar cubes on his cup, and offering some to John who glared in return. “He is my brother, therefore, I believe it is within my given rights to be concerned for his well-being, shouldn’t I?”

 

“And you couldn’t have come visited in person to see for yourself?” He quips in a sharp tone, inwardly smiling at the venomous glare that could burn down the masses pointed towards him. “Oh, wait,”

 

The emotion altogether diminishes, and he’s met with an icy stare that involuntarily sent chills down his spine.

 

“Although Sherlock is capable of spurning me away, I highly doubt he is capable of pushing one’s own flesh and blood too quickly. He is a genius, through and through, which is why he’s humbled himself to ask for my assistance with his own personal...rehabilitation.”

 

The puzzle pieces slowly came into place.

 

“So you...what, own the whole cottage that he’s staying in?”

 

“Correct, Doctor.” Mycroft throws a condescending smile in his direction. “Now I’m beginning to realize why Sherlock’s been able to tolerate your company for so long.”

 

John dismisses the blatant insult as if it was a fly on the wall.  

 

“And the black car that always brings me there?”

 

“Just so.” His expression doesn’t waver in the least, just increases in overall smugness.

 

John wipes a tired hand on his face.

 

“Look, I’ve met your brother in just a little over a month. I’ve no motive other than to fill-in for Mrs. Hudson whilst she’s at her sister’s.”

 

“And you’ve not bothered phoning Mrs. Hudson on her recent status? Or have you been too distracted around my brother’s presence to realize that you’ve already bitten off more than you’ve been offered.”

 

Immediately, he narrows his eyes.

 

“Are you trying to put me off the job?”

 

To his surprise, Mycroft refuses.

 

“God no. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

 

“Then why are you doing some digging if you’re trying to get me to stay with your brother?” John couldn’t help but question. He couldn’t read the man in front of him at all. Guess it runs in the family, he supposes.

 

“Because due to your recent fallout with one’s own sibling, I’d like to confirm whether you’re mentally and emotionally adequate to taking on the job of being Sherlock’s current handler.”

 

He couldn’t even find the right expression that hid the strong urge to take someone down with his bare hands. However, he couldn’t help but be angered by what Mycroft’s just proposed. Nevermind Harry, he’s made sure to contact her every so often, and thankfully she replied to most of them.

 

“His handler?” He snorts, smirking. “If you think I could get Sherlock to do anything I wanted, I would’ve done it by now?” And for good riddens. “And what are you trying to get out of pulling this stunt, hmm? Threatening people to do your bidding is actually frowned upon in the real world, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“It could, if it would guarantee his safety.”

 

John couldn’t help the laughter that bubbles from the back of his throat.

 

“I already do that on the daily basis, Mycroft. Or have you not seen what he’s currently brewing lately?”

 

“Although his current hobbies does threaten his life on a day-to-day basis, be reminded that the so-called ‘real-world’ of yours is more intricate, and dismal than what you’ve been led to believe.” Their gazes meet full on. “Though I doubt my warnings would deter you from the path you’re currently leading with Sherlock. You’ve already experienced it, surely.”

 

He takes a breath.

 

“Is that it? You’re asking me to keep your brother safe. That’s all.”

 

“Well, yes - “

 

“Then that’s a load of bollox.” He spits out in the harshest tone he could ever make. “He’s not some damsel in distress, Mycroft. He’s just not going to sit around and let people push him around like some defenseless man that’s incapable of fighting his own battles. You said it yourself, _Sherlock is a genius through and through_ , I’m sure he’s capable of doing that on his own, without your meddling.”

 

“My brother is the only person in the world that I am incapable of dismissing, John.” Mycroft simply says. “And I would do anything within my power to keep him safe, even if it’s against himself.”

 

And for a second (and he definitely wouldn’t care to admit it out loud), they’ve reached a sort of mutual understanding.

 

John takes a momentary pause to contemplate what he should do next.

 

“I’m not interested.”

 

For a second, John got to bask on Mycroft’s rare blunder, scanning John briefly to try and guess what John would have been referring to.

 

“In what you were offering.” John finds his own posture straightening proudly. “Whatever it is, I’d rather hear that from Sherlock, not just from some ponce git who believes that he knows what’s best for Sherlock than the man himself.”

 

A dark glint passes through Mycroft’s eyes that suggested something else.

 

John gets up from his seat, not bothering to tuck his chair in for good measures. He refuses to back down from the challenge, no matter what Mycroft could pull from underneath his sleeve. He passes through the door, only to hear Mycroft briefly calling his name.

 

He pauses, but refuses to turn around.

 

“What makes you so sure that he would follow through on his end? Or have you forgotten this afternoon’s little fiasco already?”

 

He will, John wanted to add in, but for once he knew when to keep his own mouth shut. Especially when he wasn’t quite sure how well he knew of the lad’s past to be able to provide an accurate response. He follows his own trail back to the car that brought him to the building, past some geriatric men who either refuse, or couldn’t utter a word.

 

The lady from earlier - Anthea (?) - awaits for him by the passenger door.

 

“I’m to take you home.” She mechanically states.

 

“Do I even get a word about where that is?” he questions half-heartedly, already knowing the answer.

 

And from the looks of it, so did Anthea.

 

“Not at all…” Her typing pauses for 5 seconds. “John.”

 

He gives a deflated sigh, buckling himself in without complaint. For once he’s relieved that he had somebody to get home to, even if said somebody had been angry with him, and probably doesn’t want to see anymore of John’s ugly mug. Nonetheless, he needed to hear those words directly from Sherlock’s mouth to come to a complete decision. If he wanted John out, then Sherlock’s got to tell John himself. No matter how much it would kill him on the inside.

 

-

 

When he arrives back to Mycroft’s cottage, John had to do a double-take, noticing the police car that was parked up front. There wasn’t a single person inside, which meant that whoever was here will no doubt have entered already. Not wasting another second, John slams the door to the black sedan without having the compulsion to hesitate, and head towards the door. There was a brief lapse in the moment that John thought he would’ve had to break in again due to his lack of keys for a proper entry (even when it had been just recently fixed by phantom repair men - Mycroft’s doing, probably), only to find that the door had remained open, and that he was inside in seconds.

 

Much as he’d like to revel in the moment to still be around Sherlock, John couldn’t find himself to relax, because if the door had been open, and a police car by the only point of entrance (other than the backyard garden that Sherlock had been tending to almost daily), then there could be a 50/50 chance that Sherlock would be in trouble, and that is definitely something he simply would not risk.

 

-

 

“Sherlock?” He was almost there. His heart pumping generously, but not due through exhaustion. John immediately heads straight for his recent lodgings, pocketing his regulation gun from behind his trousers, sandwiched in between his boxers and pants, and off to Sherlock’s bedroom he went. He tiptoes on his last steps, expecting the squeak of the wood to give him away if he’d so much as make a misstep. The door had slightly been agape, which gave John the opportunity to peek through the opening and assess the situation.

 

“....been a while, Sherlock. You can’t just avoid these things, you know.” The male, shorter than his friend, had salt-n-pepper hair that littered his scalp, spoke. The man stood closest to the door for John to hear the almost pleading gruff to his tone.

 

“And tell me detective inspector, when have I answered to your beck and call through my own volition?” Sherlock sounded snappish, but John’s able to detect the meagre exhaustion behind the facade. “Or has Scotland Yard finally reached a new low, that they’ll willingly depend on civilians who bore no credentials?”

 

The other man tugs a bit on the ends of his hair in obvious frustration.

 

“And since when has that stopped you?”

 

John chews on his lower lip, removing his hand from the hold he had on the handle of his gun. He had no right to be able to bear witness to this. He’d barely even known Sherlock enough to be blessed with hearing just a crumb of the bloke’s past, let alone the reason why Sherlock had decided not to be a consulting detective anymore. This has been a complete breach of privacy that he didn’t deserve.

 

Carefully, John maneuvers his crouch from behind the door in an attempt to get away from hearing anymore from the exchange. However, he was stopped mid-way when he stepped through a particular tile that echoed a long, arduous creak that broke the crushing silence.

 

He immediately finds Sherlock opening the door fully with one pale hand covering the door knob entirely. His friend (is he even allowed to refer to him as such anymore?) pales by the sight of John, if a bit relieved judging by the tug at the corners of his eyes.

 

“John.” His voice sounded unsure, reluctant, and a bit scared. “I - “

 

“Sherlock?” The guy that he’d been talking to, steps out to place himself between the both of them. He catches sight of John, widening his eyes, and a faint flush to settle itself on his temple, eyeing the two of them warily. “I didn’t know that you had company,” he offers his hand towards John with a smile. “I don’t believe Sherlock’s told you about me yet, but I’m DI Greg Lestrade. Nice to meet you.”

 

John takes the hand, pumping it for good measures. He takes his eyes off Sherlock with a feigned sniff to the side, an oddly fitting smile gracing his face. “John Watson, hi.” he greets back. “And to be fair mate, I doubt he’s talked about me either, no harm done.”

 

Lestrade beams at his response, pulling his hand away, and nodding towards Sherlock and John before making his way down. But not without saying one more thing, scrutinising Sherlock, who still stood frozen by the doorway, not uttering a word.

 

“Sherlock, you’ve always been a good man. Don’t blame yourself for something you had no control over.” He chews on his lower lip decisively, studying Sherlock who had appeared more rigid by the sound. “If it had anything to go by, I didn’t believe it from the start when they told me about it.” And as if he needed Sherlock to understand. “Still don’t, even when the rest of the world did.” Also. “You’d be hearing from me soon enough when we do get some leads. You know, so you could get back to work.”

 

And with that, Greg Lestrade’s cruiser drives away to the long winding road, disappearing behind a thick cluster of trees.

 

A plethora of emotions passes by Sherlock’s face as soon as Lestrade had left. At first John thought that it had to do with the detective inspector, but being the only object of the bloke’s scrutiny can be quite telling.

 

“Look, Sherlock, I -”

 

“You’re.. back.” They reply in unison.

 

John massages the back of his neck, blushing at the tips of his ears, eyeing the floor with definite interest. The curly-haired berk mirrors the position, looking down on the floor as well, though he kept sneaking brief glances at John like he thought the latter might disappear any second.

 

“I, yeah, I am.” John mumbles nasally, still unable to meet Sherlock’s gaze whose eyes have once again drifted towards him with complete concentration. “That is… I’m still allowed to...right?” He had the whole thing planned in his head, but his bloody tongue refused to cooperate with him. “I mean - “

 

“Yes.” Sherlock puts him out of his misery, looking endearingly shy - a complete change in character from what he’d been able to see thus far. He’s toeing a wavy line in front of him, the floor once again reclaiming his attention (being jealous of an inanimate object John, really?). “I.. that.. Yes.” He coughs onto one of his closed fist. John felt a bit better for the reassurance of his stay, and that he hadn’t been the only one to feel awkward about the whole thing. “You can...I didn’t… uhhh, I’ve no valid reason to consider your immediate departure… I...you’ve been helping…me… get better? And, I -uh … I appreciate it. Truly.”

 

John bites his tongue the moment the strong urge to capture Sherlock in his arms became relevant. If his leg had still remained wonky, he would’ve just allowed himself to settle his weight on the pain to think about something else, but now that his friend had fixed him, fixed that part of his brain that was all too aware of the pain. Presently, he felt the compulsion pulling at every nerve of his muscles, urging him to carry out the said action. He settles for a quick squeeze on the bloke’s shoulder instead, lingering second before removing his hand, and immediately squeezing at the very palm that drifted to his back to do anymore prevalent damage.

 

He barely feels it when Sherlock mimics the movement with slightly bony fingers, the pressure had been very faint to qualify as touch, but the lingering warmth of the contact had remained. He forces his emotions to remain neutral, knowing all too well what his face could’ve been showing at that time.

 

“I saw your brother today.” Buggery shit fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that to divert attention from himself, not when Sherlock recedes from their close proximity slightly like he’s been burnt.

 

“He would’ve done it sooner or later, it was inevitable.” Sherlock crosses his arms, hunching himself to appear shorter. He looked uneasy, staring at something from John’s left shoulder. “Learn anything, um, interesting?” His gaze looked glittery at that moment, staring up the ceiling like he was trying to prevent himself from crying. Though odd enough, his voice sounded unnaturally normal, hollow even, to discern any type of emotion that he might be harbouring at the moment.

 

“Well,” John idly taps his foot on the floor, releasing some air through both his mouth and nose. What should he say? Was there really anything to withhold from this man? Why lie in the first place? “- I wouldn’t really say interesting. I mean you know the bloke from experience, so I highly doubt I’ll tell you anything that you don’t already know.” He doesn’t quite get the response he was expecting, leaving Sherlock with a perpetual furrow on his brows.

 

“How do you mean?” His voice just an octave lighter, but not too close from how he normally sounds. However, he did sound understanding, with a touch of humor on the current tilt of his lip.

 

“Well, for one, does he normally kidnap people like that? I didn’t even know that was done in real life. I mean I’ve watched it in movies, but seeing it for myself in real life is really just...so...dramatic, don’t you think?” Sherlock snorts, piercing his lips to prevent a laugh from escaping. But John simply would not have it, he must make this berk laugh, he must. “Ta very much for the warning, by the way, I should’ve kept a weathered eye out or something. Only god knows how many times I would ever be kidnapped by posh gits with loose-fitting suits, who finds it appropriate to serve me tea, before I wee my pants from having to keep a straight face the whole time. Dear god, it was _exhausting_. How did you even grow up together without wanting to tear the other’s hair out?”

 

Sherlock blinks for a moment, taking in every corner of John’s face before laughing with full force. And it wasn’t the sensual deep rumbles he usually does when he finds something - John mostly - amusing; it married cackling and snorting to varying lengths, with a bit of tears escaping his eyes at the end. And even then, his previous activity had left spurts of residual giggles every time he catches John’s eye.

 

“We had initially done so, when we were kids, I believe.” Sherlock states after a moment of companionable silence. “He was getting all the perfect grades, and overall flawless memory in all subjects he takes a glance at. Whilst I only exceeded in areas I’ve ever taken an interest in, and barely passed the ones that I wouldn’t have deemed essential, and interesting for further learning. We basically had to fight for our mother’s attention, but he had always been mummy’s golden boy, even to this day. I even made myself believe in my earlier years that if I’d tried hard enough, I would exceed him, but it deems to be pointless now.” He takes a moment’s pause, regarding John briefly, searching for something that he couldn’t locate, before turning his head to another spot on the furniture. “He had always been better in most things, and I hated him for that. In fact, I’ve always had - believed it to be true for a couple of years, relentlessly working the inner functions of my mind that time itself did not appear to be a limiting factor. I found that during my twenty’s that I had a knack for being able to read nuances in everyday life that normal people would’ve ordinarily dismissed, even created my own profession as a “consulting detective” for the Met when they’re appallingly on wits end, which is always. You’ve met Lestrade, haven’t you? However, when Mycroft was about my age, he’d already been recommended, as well as nominated by many faculty members in parliament to begin working in minimal jobs to get himself introduced with the business. And now he occupies a minor position in the British Government under his Majesty’s careful guidance - well he says minor - but I’m sure his resume would state anything but.” he snorts idly at his own joke, smiling with his eyes. “I used to envy him for being able to begin his career early, whereas I’ve hardly been able to settle my feet on steady ground. He and I don’t always see eye-to-eye, but he cares for me, he does in his own commandeering sort of way. I got in a bit of trouble a few years back, and..well..it didn’t end well, and.. And - “ His expression drops within an instant, leaving the silently progressing dread to those who bear witness to it to thicken.

 

“Sherlock.” John sighs, frowning. He’s royally screwed up, hasn’t he? “You don’t have to do this, you know? You don’t have to tell me because I’ve brought it up.”

 

“The reason he saw you today was because he had offered you information about my past, didn’t he? And you, you -”

 

“Rejected it, knowing that I’d rather hear the story from you, than him.” He sighs again, clenching his jaw for a brief moment. “Plus, I hardly think I’m worth the effort to be able to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, and yet here I am.”

 

The revelation seem to finally dawn on Sherlock, leaving him open mouthed.

 

“And here you are.” he remarks, almost in a daze, and spoken within a distance from each other.

 

“Well, yes.” John smirks, tilting his head. “I mean, where else am I going to be able to get free food, _and_ be granted with an insufferable, and brilliant eccentric git as a flatmate? If this is heaven, then I could die happy being able to be a piece of this life at all. It just doesn’t happen.” to people like me.

 

It only took one look for John to notice the permanent shade of red that tinted the bloke’s entire skin, until he finds his bum connecting to the floor due to Sherlock having to push him down for some strange reason, retreating back to his own room, door locking with a successful click.

 

John grips at his forelocks, noticing that they are long overdue for a good trim.

 

He feels the rapid beating of his heart through the carotid artery on his neck, and the shortness of breath that he seemed to be exhibiting. It was only this once that he’d be willing to acknowledge how truly fucked he is for falling for a bloke who had no interest in the entirety of the population. Yep, truly fucked indeed.

 

-

 

About two and a half months passes in their acquaintance(friend)ship that John finds Sherlock waiting for him by the front door like usually does most days when John goes out, but this time he seemed a bit...off: he was only dressed in his silk blue dressing gown, a gray droopy shirt, and sweatpants, and had he mention that the bloke hadn’t been wearing shoes? His curls were in a frazzled mess, like he had ran his hands all over it several times, and although the bloke had appeared pallor from all the times he’d personally known him, this time he has a sickening sheen to him similar to a sickly man in need of some medical attention.

 

“John.” The man had called out in an uneven, hoarse baritone.

 

He doesn’t bother communicating his courteous goodbye with yet another driver whose name he could hardly care for (knowing through instinct that they weren’t at all truthful about it), heading for the detective, and wrapping an arm around his waist, whilst simultaneously maneuvering the both of them inside. He ignores the small amount of satisfaction he was granted through the contact, taking note of the dampness where hand met cloth.

 

“Jesus christ, Sherlock.” He attempts at keeping his voice steady. He led them towards the joint sofa, allowing Sherlock to grip on his wrist with intense pressure. John could feel the capillaries constricting blood flow due to oxygen deprivation. Eventhough he is aware that he’d soon begin losing feeling in his arm, he couldn’t help but feel his heart echo his mournings towards the other man. God, is this what falling for someone feels like? Every cell in your body humming itself into a sweet melody that literally every breath he takes had been nothing short of gasp and stutters? That although he’d very much want to kiss him - kiss Sherlock, he couldn’t, because he wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself if he’d manage to cripple the dynamics they have? Dear God, give him strength. “Tell me you’re okay. Please tell me you’re okay.”

 

Sherlock’s shaking slowly begins to recede incrementally for about twenty minutes in, but his unshakeable grip still remained. He looked beautifully rumpled, with sleep still coating the edges of his eyes, and a bit of colour finally finding his cheeks. _Incandescent_ was the first thing to come to mind when he took a mental image of it for his own memory. John had yet to divert his attention from the other man, even if given the choice refused to.

 

His friend takes one lasting hiccup, before releasing his deadly hold on John’s wrist. And to John’s pleasure, he hadn’t fully relinquished the hold. Sherlock kept his hand firmly on delicate

bones, resting together on the meagre gap that separated them, head plastered on the back of the couch, eyes and mouth closed. He was about to ask again, but he was stopped, overhearing the incessant knocking on the door.

 

John bit the corner of his lip, inwardly fighting the impulse to just simply ignore whoever had been at the door, and keep Sherlock’s hold on him. However, the knocking came more insistently.

 

Reading his thoughts, Sherlock doesn’t bother to make a move, just removes his hand from John’s wrist as though the experience itself had been a dream. He misses the coolness that matched his warm ones.

 

The shorter man hesitates for only a second, before heading towards the door.

 

“Lestrade!” He almost jumps from where he stood. Lestrade looked as exhausted as Sherlock although the difference had been evident; the aforementioned was all scruffy, and unshaven, downtrodden with exhaustion seeping towards every bone in his body. Whilst Sherlock had barely an evening bristle on his nibs. “You look, well..” Like you’ve been hit by a bus multiple times before you came here.

 

“Yeah, yeah.” He mutters, slurring his words a bit. “I’m sure you’ve told that every pretty lady you see.” He’s also got this crooked smile on his face that John had apparently failed to miss. John attempted to hide a laugh.  Looking awfully pleased with himself, Lestrade straightens his droopy posture to a passable one, nodding towards where he sees Sherlock, who appeared like he’d been ready to bolt from the continent. He vaguely hears Lestrade asking for entry, which he granted with an uncertain pivot of his feet. “Want some tea, Greg?”

 

“Ah, no thank you. I’ve just had my fourth cup of coffee just recently, a raincheck on that, maybe?” Lestrade shakes his head, smiling apologetically. However, when he turns toward Sherlock, his eye give way to a sympathetic turn. “‘Bout time now, don’t you think?”

 

“For what?” Sherlock frowns, doing a poor attempt of sounding confused.

 

Lestrade catches on immediately, his shoulders droop.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

Wanting to avoid the subject altogether, the man in question just lies down on the sofa, facing the cushions.

 

“You can’t make me go, Geoff. You’re lead detective inspector for a reason, aren’t you? Or does the Met willingly give the title to just anyone who asks for them?” His voice sounded off, a bit wonky on the edges. John frets quietly in the corner, wondering what could be going on inside the bloke’s head at the moment: whether Sherlock had been affected by the visit altogether, or something else he's unaware of.

 

Lestrade doesn’t acknowledge the name change, just ignores it. “Sherlock, you can’t keep avoiding this. We just found a kid’s head with disproportionate limbs attached to another body. A _kid_ doesn’t that mean anything at all to you?” He sounded frustrated, and a tiny bit miffed that Sherlock wouldn’t budge.

 

John winces at the information. It did sound bad. In fact, it sounded way worse than he’d imagine for any crime to be committed these days. He had mostly been spending his time in this area for the majority of the time, save for grocery shopping, and drinking out with old friends.

 

To his surprise, Sherlock rises to his full height, towering over Lestrade with an icy glare that could compete with shards of ice in the Antarctic.

 

“I’m a sociopath, and sociopaths are incapable of healthy sentiments. Haven’t you been listening to your co-workers at all? Surely they’re not as adverse to your regular visit as you’d like to embellish every so often.” He doesn’t stop for a breath at all in any of it. John knew from that moment that if Sherlock could, he would have steam pouring out from his nose. “Additionally, you should consider hiring a personal barber with your little situation. Or is it that time of year again?”

 

“And since when has that bothered you?” Lestrade cuts in, being accustomed to Sherlock’s diverse mannerisms than John would’ve expected. “Last time I checked, you were just telling Sally about why she should consider using dating websites that could easily surpass Anderson. What happened to that man that I knew? Did you take his place? Because the Sherlock Holmes that I know-that I knew wouldn’t take crap from other people, and just does what he likes because he clearly knows that he could do better, and puts those words into action.” And he was out of their hair before John could blink.

 

“I’ll just take these to the kitchen.” He mutters awkwardly, waving towards the forgotten groceries that he didn’t realize had been dropped off by their doorstep. He was in the middle of trying to figure out how to coordinate a more suitable system between one of Sherlock’s new experiments involving pig’s feet before he hears his name being called. He turns to answer. “Yeah?”

 

Sherlock’s already rigid posture tightens under his gaze.

 

The latter chews on his lower lip.

 

“...You didn’t forget my honey, did you?”

 

Hackles raising, John studies his friend, detecting immediately that it was not the words that he wanted to say.

 

“Of course not, you git.” He says lightly, trying to ease the mood. Failing by a hair line. “You’ve listed it multiple times in different fonts on my list, how could I forget?”

 

Sherlock gives a brief nod, immediately heading towards his room.

 

Slowly, John focuses his attention towards putting away the groceries. Rooting around for the items on the shopping bags he finds the honey jar. Idly stroking soothingly at the breakable glass,  his free hand is put to good use by mechanically filing away items in their rightful place.

 

-

 

John was just about to settle in for the evening in his bed, his blanket wrapped around his hips, eyes closed. Unable to find a way to pass the time, with Sherlock having isolated himself in his room, he decides to retire to his bedroom early. Minutes turned to hours, and not a sound was heard throughout the cottage, just the distinct sound of his own breathing, and the occasional branch to the window. The curly haired man had already too much to deal with, and having to present him with more things to think about would simply be pigsty.

 

His thoughts were scattered all over the place. On one hand, he didn’t want to worry about the possible lead that Lestrade had presented them with, because the crime itself had seemed to be a work of fiction to be believable. Even with a badge to his name, it could take some time getting used to trusting the detective inspector. It wasn't that he distrusted the officials altogether (he's not an idiot), but it just takes a while for him to be able to regard someone as trustworthy. What still continues to baffle him, however, is how he's able to trust Sherlock as fast as he did.

 

John shakes the thought away, turning his laptop to do some research the case, but found more speculations than actual details: a missing boy about 14 years old gone missing for 4 years had been found on the steps of Parliament with mismatched limbs. If he had to think about it, truly think about it, this reminded him of a story he’s read as a child titled “Frankenstein”. He couldn’t recall much of the story, but he knew that a scientist had recreated a human out of spare parts from the dead, and managed to bring the abomination to life. Much as he would’ve like to urge Sherlock to taking on the case, he highly doubts he’d be able to urge the bloke to doing anything he resolutely avoided. Plus, he knew very little of Sherlock’s past to actually shed some light to the situation, and to make assumptions whilst walking on eggshells would be suicide. He settles for contemplative silence for the time being until he’s able to figure out what he could do to be able to help the situation, and still maintain his current situation with Sherlock in any way he can.

 

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

 

A voice resonates on the other side of the door. John almost jumps for his gun that remained underneath his pillow. However, recognizing the voice immediately, he was able to settle back on his original position.

 

“I thought you were asleep.” He counters, tracing lightly at his knuckles. “I’ve been knocking for hours, and no answer, Sherlock.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“I was.. Er.. thinking about some things.” Sherlock finally admits, shifting from one foot to another.

 

“Am I allowed to know what it’s about?” Because why not? It’s 2 am in the morning, and it was Sherlock who seeked him out, so he’s allowed to be curious.

 

“May I come in?”

 

At the comment, John almost laughed. Even if this house itself had belonged to Mycroft, as the bloke’s sibling, he’s allowed rights to anything in the lot even more than John; it didn’t make sense that he’s asking for permission to enter the room.

 

“It depends,” John theatrically taps at his chin with an index finger. To which Sherlock replies. “On?”

 

“Whether you’re carrying any weapons on you.”

 

That appeared to get Sherlock’s attention, fidgeting increasing.

 

“What are you - you said that Mycroft didn’t - “ His voice silences immediately, probably considering the whole exchange, sighing lightly. “Axe-murderer or not, I’m entering.” He brazenly states.

 

John sits up from his prone position, and took the corner of the bed closest to the pillow. He could barely see much, considering that he hadn’t actually bothered with turning on the lamp, but he does see Sherlock’s familiar curly haired shape as it takes the other side of the bed on the same side John had sat on.

 

None of the two had bothered to speak a word, just a calm exterior for show to mask the obvious curiosity brewing from beneath their pores.

 

“You were thinking about it, weren’t you?” Sherlock inquires again.

 

“Thinking about what?”

 

But his friend had been quicker, the sheen of his virescent blue eyes radiating with friction.

 

“Oh, John.” He attempts at keeping a neutral facade regardless. “We both are aware that you’re horrid at lying. Do stop skirting about it, and tell me the truth.”

 

“Sherlock, it’s 2 am in the bloody morning. Did you really just get here just to accuse me of thinking?” Although it didn’t seem like it, he really was tired, and having these thoughts swirling around his head doesn’t really help anyone.

 

“No,” Sherlock speaks in a tone of condescension making John out to be the little kid in this scenario. “You’re usually more of a man-of-action than the rational type -”

 

“Cheers.” John rolls his eyes, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to see him do it.

 

“And tonight,” He scoots closer to John in the dark, feeling his breath tickle John’s nose. “- your thoughts had been especially loud.”

 

“Well, it could’ve been -”

  

“No, it really couldn’t.” Sherlock intervenes, sniffing out the lie from a mile away. “You’re thinking about how disappointed you are of me, that I wouldn’t take on the case, like the papers you’ve read that say I have.”

 

John’s brow furrow. He wasn’t even thinking of that in the least. “Now hold on a minute, I -”

 

“So now, what?” Sherlock says, hissing as he does so. “Are you ready to face the embellish fact that I’m not inclined to acting like “hero” as you would’ve loved to romanticize? Or were you just lying about why you were sent here because Mycroft’s finally had enough of my moping, and finally purchased me a _friend_?” The final word was spoken with enough acid to burn down the whole area in sight. It’s disconcerting.

 

In the whole of Sherlock’s little speech, John couldn’t help but feel a bubble of irrational  anger build up on the pit of his stomach. Because this look-alike of Sherlock may look and sound exactly like him, but this one seemed darker somehow, like someone’s controlling his every action as though he’s a tightly wound up doll with broken parts barely fitting together. They’ve known each other for two months. Sherlock has brought up bits about his childhood that he seemed completely uncomfortable about, whilst John had told his friend close to nil, why he had really moved out from Harry’s place. God, no wonder Sherlock still doubted his intent. This had been his own damn fault in the first place.

 

His arm reaches immediately towards the switch of the lamp to bring about light to the room, eyeing his friend warily who looked to be a cross between being livid and suspicion. He doesn’t speak a word, just firmly narrows his eyes, scanning every crevice of John’s expressions and movement.

 

“I guess I’ve never really told you why I’ve been looking for a new place from the beginning.” He shifts uncomfortably from his position, noting how Sherlock’s posture tightens at the admission. His expression, however, remains unreadable, but John continues anyway. “I used to erm, live with a sibling of mine: Harry. I’ve just recently returned to London after I wasn’t fit to be a soldier anymore due to my injury, and she took me in, knowing that I didn’t have a place to stay. Mostly because she and her wife Clara had just recently been divorced. That had meant that I got to kip in the extra guest room that they seldom use, and everything had been okay for a few weeks: Harry had been able to stay sober for a bit, but then she can never really forced down her addiction, which is why one day she decided to go out binging, and comes back pissed drunk that she could hardly stand up.” He gave a low gruff, staring at the open palms that sat tiredly on his thighs. “I thought I could just ignore it. I mostly did the same thing when we were younger, but she just came in through the door, packing up my bags for me, because she couldn’t handle being

around someone who appeared too pitiful to look at. Said that she hated my face because apparently I’ve always made myself out to be better than her, and just seeing a hollow shell of who I was made her feel guilty about having to see her drink on a regular basis. And the next thing I knew, I met Mrs. H, she thought it was a good idea for me to keep you company, and here I am.”

 

His eyes meets Sherlock’s whose gaze had gone a bit glossy, his lips tilting lower as he took the confession in for further processing.

 

“It wasn’t my intention to keep the reason of why I’m here a secret.” He wipes his massively sweating palms on his night pants. “I mean, I did meet Mycroft, but he was a gigantic tosser the whole time that I couldn’t wait to get out of there when I could. Like you’ve insinuated, he had implicitly offered me to stay, but the whole thing about keeping you reigned in seemed a bit too much for me, and plus nobody deserves that kind of treatment from other people. Not even you. So, no, I didn’t take it; never even considered it for a second.” He didn’t have much else to say, which is why he drifts off to a slightly contented silence, waiting for Sherlock to respond.

 

“But why didn’t you?” Sherlock stutters out after a minute of pragmatic pause. “Take it, take the offer? You’re not exactly in the wealthy side when it came to finances, so why?”

 

“Gee, thanks.” John dead-panned. “But in case you’ve completely ignored the whole explanation altogether; even if I could only afford a ruddy bedsit but still be able to see you in this massive house of Mycroft’s, I would still would have refused the offer.”

 

“But why?” Sherlock half-shrieks in indignance. “Why do you care?”

 

John sighs. So he really had to spell it out for him.

 

“Because, you gargantuous pain the arse, I like to think of you as my friend.” And if I’m lucky, maybe a bit more. “And friends don’t do that to other friends, do you understand? I can’t-won’t do that to you even if I was held at a gunpoint, or if I was offered money by your half-mad sibling who’s got a lot of cash to spend.” That’s the moment he chooses to finally breathe, hoping with all his heart for Sherlock to finally understand. “Our friendship is far more important than that. Way more.”

 

The realization visibly dawns on Sherlock’s face, his mouth parting to a massive ‘O’, his eyes widening to saucers, and a splash of pink to his cheeks. He looked unnaturally perturbed, like he had taken much more than he can handle. Which John suppose made total sense when it came to Sherlock...vaguely

recalling the conversation he had with Mrs. Hudson about Sherlock’s lack of any form of camaraderie.

“I-I don’t understand!” Sherlock looked accusingly at him as he speaks. “I rarely pay attention to what I say which leads me to unintentionally tell you cruel things without noticing. I always leave it to you to look after the whole place, whilst I resume with my current experiments, and I get you to do all of the shopping. What kind of a friendship is that? I’d say that’s a pretty uneven trade off, if you ask me.”

 

“And if you’d actually pay attention, like genuinely been paying attention, you would’ve realized that I’ve been living in here too, eating most of the meals, making you clean up the worst of your messes, and basically free-loading. Quid pro quo.” He huffs, crossing his arms. “So there.” Oh how unremarkable he must’ve been right at this moment.

 

Sherlock looked visibly stunned, before he drifts off into a fit of breathy laughter. John smiles, enjoying how the dim lights compliments Sherlock’s ivory skin accentuated by gold streaks, before he contributes with a singsong sound, not caring at all about being completely awake at half past three in the morning.

 

Reading his mind, he gives a short nod the moment he ceases his laughter with a cough. He looked reluctant as he approaches John’s door once more, pausing at the threshold.

 

John remained attentive, watching his friend curiously.

 

“You’ll be there, won’t you?” He asks huskily, refusing to face John. There was something fragile in and vulnerable as he says this, demanding John’s whole concentration in that vague comment alone, and find that he only had but one response. “Of course I will. Always.” He couldn’t help but add.

 

Sherlock gives him a brief sideways glance, disappearing from John’s view completely.

 

Surprisingly, he was dead to the world as soon as his head had hit the pillow.

 

-

 

Around 9 am, John couldn’t help but feel suffocated. This had not happened at all during any of his nightmare, so excuse his confusion if he awakens with a pile of materials covering the other half of him that wasn’t covered by the duvet. Craving the air he needed, he yanks every piece of clothing away from his face, only to realize Sherlock already dressed donning an expensive belstaff coat with a sapphire-coloured scarf (that offendingly complimented his eyes so well), standing in his room. He has both hands steepled by his lips, pacing back and forth from the door, all the way to John’s closet, not noticing that John has awoken.

 

Immediately he realizes that Sherlock’s fretting over something, which softens his mood just a bit when he does speak.

 

“Sherlock.” Though his friend had not made the indication that he’s heard his own name being called, he raises his voice a bit. “Sherlock!”

 

He felt a tiny bit of guilt when he sees his companion visibly startle by the sound, immediately re-focusing his attention towards John.

 

“If you could hurry up, Lestrade’s was able to convince forensics to keep the body preserved in the bag for another twenty-four hours. If you wouldn’t mind getting dress anytime today, that would be lovely.”

 

Barely awake, John remains still under his covers, debating whether he should excuse himself towards the bathroom for a quick change and ask questions later, or just ask anyway because he deserved an answer to being awoken twice in the morning. He favoured the latter.

 

“What exactly are you talking about, Sherlock?” He frowns, tightening the sheets that wrapped around him tighter on his upper half of the body. “Forgive me if I hadn’t caught on, seeing as I’ve suddenly been suffocated by my own jumper.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

“Don’t be lurid, John. They did not suffocate you, they merely lay on top of you.”

 

John pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

 

“Sherlock, if you could please be a little clearer. Us inferior minds need a healthy dose of tea before it can begin to warm up.” To which he feels a warm thermus pressed to his hands.

 

“Now if you please, get dressed so that we could leave.”

 

“We?” He couldn’t help but furrow his brow in confusion, though he is a bit touched that Sherlock’s included him to whatever it was that he was doing without being forced to do it. “Where are _we_ going anyway? You never specified.”

“Case, next question?” He’s already began typing in his phone, face bathed in a bright teal-ish glow.

 

“Case?” And now he’s even more confused. “You mean -” he chews on his lower lip in contemplation. “The child found in front of Parliament? We’re going to go there to… investigate?”

 

Sherlock gives him with a scathing glare, blessing his phone with his attention once again.

 

Surprisingly, he does respond, albeit close to a whisper.

 

“That is essentially what I do, yes.” He agrees somewhat woefully. “Problem?”

 

John vaguely realizes that although Sherlock didn’t seem all too comfortable with finding the answer in the guise of a calm facade, he felt like he was being tested..sort of.

 

“Two things.”

 

Sherlock’s posture immediately stiffens, though he provides a single nod to indicate his understanding.

 

“One,” He holds up his index finger. “- we will eat a proper breakfast.” And before Sherlock visibly protests, John cuts through, reveling in leaving the other bloke to gape for a moment. “And two,” Up goes the next closest finger. “You’re to give me at least 15 minutes to properly get ready, are we clear on that, Sherlock?”

 

His friend clams up, swallowing.

 

“Yes, John.” He acknowledges, striding off towards the door without another word.

 

He takes a moment to keep his breathing steady, before heading towards the loo.

 

-

 

It’s as he was beginning to get dressed that he notices his browning along with a significant amount of expensive ammunition by the sink with a laminated note stuck to it. Confused, he looks at the unfamiliar scrawl, noting the words: “Keep him safe.” on one side, and on the other. “I’ll be watching.”, signed off with a single ‘MH’. It doesn’t take an idiot to understand who his generous donor had been.

 

What he found strange, however, was that before he went to bed last night he was sure that he'd placed them away from visible sight. This meant that whoever had placed these items was void of any sounds to have been able to get pass through John’s radars. He begrudgingly sends a string of cusses towards Mycroft right before starting his shower.

 

He burns the note to indistinguishable clumps of paper and plastic on his way out.

 

-

 

“You took your time.” And although he sounded annoyed, there was a tug by his mouth and eyes that indicated his contentment. He had a pink frilly apron wrapped expertly around the front of most of his torso to one third of his legs. He chose to wear a white crisp shirt (opened on the first two buttons by the neck area) that’s folded up his elbows, and tailored shoes and trousers to compliment his lithe figure. He had the furthest ends of his soft-looking curls tied up into a neat little pony tail, showcasing the visible lining to his jawline and cheekbones.

 

John frowns, taking a seat in front of a hefty panini in front of him, then to Sherlock. He just couldn’t take one look without having to soak it all in healthy dosages.

 

“Well?” His friend frowns, somehow managing to sound offended by the scrutiny, but there does appear to have a tell-tale pink spots that began forming on his cheeks. He removes the pony tail immediately, probably feeling self conscious, scrunching it up in a form of a ball into one of his hands. His fingers immediately went to the drawstring of the apron next, but John has already removed his gaze, wishing for the bloke to keep it on longer. To John’s relief, he does. “Aren’t you going to eat it, or are we just wasting more time by admiring your breakfast?”

 

“Nonono, wouldn’t want that.” John just barely replies, biting into a mouthful, noting the perfect symmetry of each ingredient: the patty had clearly been garnished with herbs and spices, and there was a nice ratio between the BLT that he was tempted to take a picture of the

whole thing altogether. He must focus on the burger, not Sherlock….no matter how much he was tempted to. “If I’d known you cooked, I would’ve asked you to make breakfast more often.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“It was just a mere beef patty with bacon, nothing too much of a challenge.” He sniffs, looking slightly shy by the praise.

 

John couldn’t keep his smile at bay, so he takes another monster of a bite.

 

“Blimey, there’s enough food in here to last me till lunch.” He indicates to the bits of fried potato wedges, and sausages. “Are you trying to fatten me up?” John asks, teasing. “Not very nice, you know?”

 

Sherlock habitually coughs onto his clenched fist.

 

“That hadn’t been my intention at all, I -”

 

John inwardly sighs.

 

“A joke, Sherlock.” He admits, beaming slightly. He really should’ve seen that coming.

 

“Yes, yes of course.” Sherlock agrees, attempting to blink the confusion out of his eyes. “A joke.”

 

“Now don’t just stand there!” John was more than grateful that the burger had been sliced in half, which made it all the more easier to offer Sherlock the other half he hasn’t bitten off from, pulling up a seat for his friend. “I know you haven’t eaten a single thing yet, and I expect you to eat at least half of my portion.”

 

“But! - “ Sherlock tried to protest.

 

“No buts, you’re sitting your arse with me here, and have a proper breakfast together, are we understood?” His companion acquiesces, grabbing the other half, and nibbling on a corner. He meets John’s glare, and he rolls his eyes, dramatically taking in a large bite as if to say a sardonic “are you happy now?”, taking another bite when John doesn’t let on, whispering a small “you’re evil, you know?”

 

John laughs in reply.

 

-

 

In the moment of their arrival, Lestrade almost keels over the moment he catches sight of Sherlock; had his mouth hanged open half an inch more, he’d be drooling by the corner of his mouth.

 

John had to try his hardest not to snicker.

 

Behind Lestrade stood a tall, broody woman with slightly darker skin, and in front of her about half a foot shorter man who looked a bit too smug with a side of twitching perpetually stuck to the side of his face. And if their glares were telling enough, they almost looked tempted to sneer when he and Sherlock approaches the body bag laid out on the slab closest to the door. None of them seemed to acknowledge his presence, all eyes practically glued towards the detective's back.

 

He made sure to walk a bit closer to Sherlock, irrationally feeling a surge of protectiveness for his friend. My god, he’s in too deep already, isn’t he? He cathartically glares at each of them before the door fully closes. Some of them paled at the sight, and looked away. Good. Making people squirm had always been a specialty of his.

 

“Edmund William Godfrey,” Lestrade introduces, having recovered from his initial shock. “Age 14 when his parents had filed in that he was missing, and it has been 4 years before we’ve been notified of his discovery in front of Parliament. Which meant that he would’ve been 18 years old now.”

 

The change in Sherlock was apparent, his body stood rigid for a span of a millisecond like he was somehow a computer hard drive rebooting his own system. He immediately goes to work with a small microscopic lens encased in a dark rectangular shell, checking every angle, every corner of what was opened to his perusal.

 

John distances himself a bit, basking in what is essentially his friend’s true habitat, fearing that he might be overstepping his boundaries more than he already has.

 

“So, you’ve never really been around to see him during his time as a detective?” He hears a voice in periphery, which he later identifies as Lestrade.

 

John had to shake his head briefly from his reverie.

 

“Well, yeah.” He shrugs. Had he been that obvious? “I mean, I’ve only heard of his occupation through Mrs. Hudson and the papers she’s been showing me months prior.” His eyes immediately finds Sherlock sniffing at an arm (maybe not the grosest thing he’s seen Sherlock do, but definitely not orthodox), maybe two, lights reflecting the silver stitches that mended precisely through skin.

 

From his own knowledge, it would take weeks for any proper healing to commence. Noticing the healing process visibly overlap between old and new skin would have meant that the process would’ve taken weeks, maybe months to initiate formation of new skin. And if he was correct, then the arrangement would’ve happened during the time that he was alive, and he was dissected, and mended whilst he was conscious. He felt a cold drip down his scalp at the realization.

 

“But it’s nothing like seeing it in action.” He shouldn’t have sounded immensely proud about it, but his body does betray him so.

 

“Listen,” Lestrade tone sounded a bit off-kilter from his normal scratchy one. “I’ve absolutely no information to base off  as to what your relationship is, exactly; you seem like a decent enough bloke from all the times I’ve seen you, and since you two appear to get along one another, I was wondering whether you two have been, in, or are some kind of…” Tiny spots of blush peppers his cheeks. “- you knowww….” And he trails off into a string of awkward tangent.

 

John took a moment to realize the implication, nervously massaging his neck. His eyes were turned away, which gave Sherlock the opening to sneak up on him before he could even formulate a proper response.

 

“Much as I’d love to overhear you prying about my sex life, Lestrade, I’m in need of John’s personal assistance.”

 

“Now you listen here. Sherlock.” Lestrade’s entire demeanor transitions to a scolding, fatherly figure, pointing a somewhat accusing index finger. “I’m already breaking enough rules as it is by allowing you in here. We can’t just let people check the body like it’s some sort of Madame Tusauds. He’s going to have to say back for this one.”

 

But Sherlock’s simply not having it, his nose flaring at the refusal.

 

“Then I’d assume you wouldn’t be needing my assistance for this case afterall.” He replies airily. “Come on John.” And he made a slow turn towards the door, his coat swooping like a malleable armour around his figure.

 

“Now hold on just a god darn minute.” Lestrade catches him by the arm. “You can’t just leave without telling us what you’ve got!” He sounded more outraged than miffed.

 

Sherlock carefully extricates his arm from Lestrade’s hold on his arm, glaring.

 

“Of course I can.” He states brazenly. “Because you need me, I don’t. And if you’re not willing  to conform to my terms, then I’d suggest you do your jobs properly so that you could bring more successes to your cases than abandoning them when you’re severely out of depth.”

 

“Terms?” Lestrade sounded confused, side-eyeing John for a second before confronting the man in question. “You’ve never set terms before. Why now?”

 

However, Sherlock was simply not having it, turning mid-step as if to go to the entrance again. He had a definite flair for dramatics, John muses idly.

 

Lestrade sighs out a small “wait”. Sherlock pauses, but he doesn’t turn.

 

“Just tell me the reason why you need John to have a look at the body. A good, logical reason on why we should allow a civilian - no offence mate - “ He mutters, looking apologetic, nodding in John’s direction. John - surprisingly - took no offence, replying with a brief  “it’s fine”,smiling understandingly afterwards. “- and the whole thing will just be swept under the rug. How about that?”

 

“Simple.” He was tempted to snap a picture at how radiant Sherlock’s eyes had looked at that moment. “John’s already had far more than the realm of norm when it comes to examining cadavers, seeing as he’s had a fair amount of years in training with decapitated soldiers seeking his aid.” John does  a quick sweep over, noting how lost Lestrade had looked. He was secretly relieved that he’d not been the only one who needed more elaboration than just the one descriptor. He gives Sherlock a nudge, urging him to explain further. His friend blows out an obnoxious noise in annoyance, but he does continue. “He was formerly an army surgeon who’ve recently returned from Afghanistan, which makes his assistance all the more invaluable to my process.”

 

“But we’ve already got specialist and doctors by the door.” Lestrade half-heartedly cuts in, his face unmistakably contrite.

 

“Time is ticking, Lestrade.” Sherlock points out impatiently. “If you wanted answers, you’d have to make your decision.”

 

“Or,” Both men look towards his direction, momentarily forgetting his existence. “I could keep a bit of distance and just... I don’t know...watch?”

 

Sherlock grunts, rolling his eyes. His gaze never leaves Lestrade’s face until a soft sigh breaks out from the other man’s lips.

 

He waves a free hand towards the awaiting body, nodding approvingly towards John. Why did it feel like he was being scrutinized for the answer?

 

“At his majesty’s request.” He smiles, stepping back to allow room for John to approach.

 

To which Sherlock merely rolls his eyes, dragging John by the arm to examine the body closer. Okay. Manhandling it is.

 

“Now tell me, John. What do you see?”

 

Being slightly accustomed to Sherlock’s need for an outside eye, he frowns, taking every detail in, not knowing where to begin.

 

“Apart from what you can visibly observe?” He hazards carefully. It was like exams all over again.

 

“Well, obviously I’ve seen all that I could, John.” Visible and invisible to the naked eye remained unsaid, but it was implied. His friends sniffs proudly, puffing out his chest. “But your expertise does provide an enlightening testimonial to guarantee full compliance for my deductions. Now then,” He throws the boy’s body a quick nod. “- off you go.”

 

John takes a brief second, studying the body with complete concentration.

 

“Well, like Lestrade said, the boy does appear to be 18.” He starts, narrowing his hearing to what his friend would say. However, one glance, and the detective is already typing stuff on his phone. “Good.”

 

John supposed that was his go to provide more details.

 

“Well, you can tell that these skins were clearly extracted at different rates, from lots of individuals in varying ethnicities because of the contrasting skin colours.” He mutters, barely hiding a wince, tracing at the odd shapes that were sewed together with thick wires. “Judging by the attempted growth of skin, he would have to have been alive to allow that to happen. Maybe a few months?”

 

To which Lestrade muttering a mournful “god” under his breath.

 

“How did I do?” He questions, feeling anxious all of a sudden.

 

“You’ve managed to touch on some relevant details,” His friend affirms, beaming a satisfied smile. “Other than having been kidnapped, he was also resulted to some pampering due to healthy condition of the rest of him _not_ donated, but was sheltered, seeing the dullness of his original tone in some areas. My thought is that he was comfortable for a good couple of years, only to have himself be sedated, and taken in for surgery. You could see by the consistencies of most of the dissections apart from one that it was a fast-reacting sedative, but not slow enough to keep him from struggling, however brief. His time of death could vary from 8 to 36 hours, noting the coolness, and lack of stiffness in his current state.”

 

“How did he die, then?” Throws in Lestrade. “My team’s not detected any form of strangulation, poison, or any way he could’ve died.”

 

“Any known affiliations, enemies that you could do a search on?” Sherlock questions instead, doing another scan on the body.

 

“Nobody of significance, I don’t think.” Lestrade responds, briefing at his notes, handing a copy to Sherlock, who glared, and handed the material to John, who perused at the page. “He had no known close friends, just someone named James House. And - “

 

“He didn’t get along with his brother.” Sherlock whispers, clearly in a daze.

 

“Hey, how did you know he had a brother -”

 

Sherlock ignores the both of them, taking his phone to one ear, and disappearing from sight.

 

-

 

John turns his head, to find himself in the middle of a large group of people already piling in.

 

“Sherlock?” He swivels an uncertain 360 before frowning. No Sherlock in sight. He repeats the name anyway, in case his voice is lost within sounds of idle chatter, and careful strategic planning. He’s already aware that he’s been ditched, but he might as well check just in case.

 

“You were the one who came in with the freak earlier.” A newer, more feminine voice says from somewhere behind him, the nickname said with particular distaste.

 

Raising his hackles, John turns to see the dark-haired woman he’d seen prior.

 

“You’re not his friend,” she continues, stepping closer as though she had been a leopard stalking her prey. “- he doesn’t have friends, so who are you?”

 

His posture tenses immediately.

 

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business now, is it...miss.” He doesn’t care for this woman, not really, but what does grind his gear is how much he takes to being immediately irritated with her.

 

“Sergeant. Donovan.” She corrects with a stiff lip, crossing her arms to her chest. The topic had appeared to be a sensitive area. “I should remind you to refer to me with the appropriate title from now on.” Her sneer comes back ten-fold. “But, I don’t think we’ll be seeing more of you anymore, are we.” It didn’t sound at all like a question.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“The freak; he does this all the time.” She explains, shaking her head ruefully. “Once he’s used them for all the things he needs - bled them dry to the point where they can never go back to how they were - he just drops them like a sack of potatoes.” She steps closer to his space, about a breath away from touching. “You best make your decision now whilst you still can, or you may just end up regretting it in the long run.”

 

“And can I ask how that’s any of your business telling me these thing, miss?” He feels the vague stirring of irritation licking at his skin. “Considering you know so much about _Sherlock Holmes_?”

 

To his surprise, she backs away a few metres, raising both her hands in mock resignation, that insipid smile still brandished like a weapon.

 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She cryptically says, taking a few more steps back. “But then again, you’re already pretty well off judging by the way you kept looking at him. Just a piece of advice, you might want to stay away from that guy.”

 

“And why should I do that?” He refuses to blush in front of this woman, however obvious he might’ve been at his intent. She had no right to tell him what to do, no matter how angry he is that Sherlock had just ran off somewhere without telling him.

 

“Because he’s a psychopath.” She states as a matter-of-a-factly. “And psychopaths get bored.” And her word dissipates into the air at the same time she blends in with the crowd.

 

“John.” He feels a hand clamp down his shoulder. Lestrade. He couldn’t help but feel just a tiny bit relieved to see a familiar face. “Bugger, you look about ready to keel over. Did you want something to drink?”

 

“I - uh..” He chances another glance at the crowd, before turning towards Lestrade. “I’d love

some.”

 

-

 

“So he’d just gone and run off, huh?” Lestrade says contemplatively behind a cup of coffee.

 

“You don’t sound surprise.” John notes, frowning at the recent text he’s sent.

 

**_where ru?_ **

 

Lestrade merely shrugs.

 

“He’s been like that ever since I saw him. Daft git.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t tell anybody where he’s going, just goes to where he needs to, and texts us when he’s either already on a stake out, or have gotten the criminal apprehended.”

 

A radical thought popped unconsciously.

 

“And if he doesn’t?” John carefully suggests, feeling a frizzle of nerves buzzing on his head. “Text, that is. What if he’s just gone and got himself kidnapped or something? What then?”

 

Lestrade sloshes his drink close to the rim, deep in thought. He doesn’t provide a response.

 

And that’s when John’s heart stutters for a bit.

 

“That...it happened before, didn’t it?”

 

“Now listen - “ Lestrade’s spine straightens in defense. He didn’t look all too happy about the event either.

 

But John’s already getting his coat on, not bothering to offer up a reply.

 

He was almost out the door of the cafe before he hears Lestrade call out for him. For some reason he manages to keep himself in line to be able to hear the bloke’s final words.

 

“Sherlock’s a brilliant man.” The latter begins. “Better than the most of us.”

 

John clenches his fist in agitation, breathing through his nose one breath, then another.

 

“He might be a brilliant man, but I think that you’re forgetting the key thing here, mate.” He smiles almost sadly when the bloke doesn’t provide an answer. “He’s also human.”

 

And he was out of the door within seconds.

 

-

 

As he was idly walking down the street, not paying much attention to where he was going, he misses the black car that’s been trailing him for the past few minutes. Now normally he would’ve caught on after the first few turns, but the thought of having to locate a way to track Sherlock in London has proven to be fruitless, no matter how much people he’d asked.

 

He attempted to get in touch with Sherlock a few times, but the number he’s been given prior just continued to ring out in every try.

 

On the next stop light, a man steps out of said car, and opens the door towards the back entrance of the sedan.

 

Sighing, he steps in without question.

 

“Ah, John. So glad of you decide to indulge us with your company.” Mycroft greets from the adjacent seat. He wore another set of a three-piece suit that highlighted the undercurrent of gray beneath his eyelids.

 

“You know if you’d just wanted to get ahold of me, you could just, I don’t know...phone me? On my phone. Just for future reference.” He wiggles the phone he’s been holding for the past hour near Mycroft’s face before tucking it on his front trouser pocket.

 

“Now where’d be the sport in that?” He muses, massaging an invisible wrinkle on his trousers.

 

John barely contains a sigh.

 

“What do you want, Mycroft? In case you haven’t noticed, I -”

 

“Am trying to coordinate my brother’s current location, are you not?” John immediately snaps his mouth shut. “If you must know, I don’t just expedite myself towards these streets without any real motives rather than to make sure that my life goes as smoothly as possible.”

 

“But?”

 

“Hmm?” Mycroft narrows his eyes in an all-too-familiar kind of way. God, if he finds that obstinate idiot, he would wring his neck until he promises that he wouldn’t run off anymore without telling anyone where he’s going first and foremost.

 

“Now correct me if I’m wrong, but people’s lives rarely go smoothly, hence the ‘but’, no what were you going to say?”

 

The other man hums almost approvingly, smirking.

 

“You’ve been around my brother too much, John.”

 

To which he shrugs, embarrassed.

 

“Speaking of my brother, he’s back in the cottage.”

 

“Great, then can you -”

 

“And, before you two are able to reunite again, I must request that you consider taking this next job offer that I am proposing.”

 

John slumps back onto his seat.

 

“Look, if this is -”

 

“Much as you’d like to antagonise my position to anything nefarious, I do care for the well-being of my brother. And seeing as you two are… pals...I have it within my means to extend my musings towards his closest friends.” Or in translation, because he’s connected with Sherlock, Mycroft is forced to also look out for the safety of those people that his brother cares for.

 

John frowns, presenting his best “I’m listening, will you just please hurry it up? I’ve got to smack some sense into your brother” look.

 

“Go on.”

 

Mycroft unconsciously massages at the handle of his umbrella.

 

“I’ve got you an interview. A little part-time locum at a nice, quaint clinic, about 45 minutes away by car. It’s available at any given time. should you decide to look for another way to carry on with your practice.”

 

John raises a brow.

 

“And why would you do that?” For me, nonetheless.

 

“Because you’re not a very wealthy man.” Mycroft raises his chin, exhuming an air of unlimited wealth and power. He didn’t appear the type to be bargained with. At all. “Also, I’m afraid that you’ve already gotten too domesticated with my brother that it may hinder his ability to be able to take on cases again.”

 

“And what exactly are you getting at?” John snaps, gritting his teeth tautly. “I’m not stopping him from going to any cases. What makes you think I’d begin now?”

 

“Because of whatever’s brewing under your ministration.” Mycroft nods towards his chest area. “Once it festers, the emotion would impair one’s ability to think rationally, and logically.”

 

“He’s fine, he’s -” definitely not interested. Not interested in someone like me.

 

“But you want more, don’t you?” It was like the words echoes throughout his heart, repeating the one worded answer in a desperate howl of affirmation. The car stops near the winding road of the house, and Mycroft extricates himself out, leaving the door open, pausing with one foot down the pavement. “Surely you’ve already been given a taste of how dangerous of a lifestyle my brother inhabits on a day-to-day basis.”

 

John smacks his lips onto a thin line. He knew it was true, even after seeing the first case has already grazed him the wrong way.

 

Mycroft takes his silence for an answer.

 

“Your connection with him would no doubt bring about a myriad of unfortunate consequences. One’s that are not for the faint of heart.” He meets John’s gaze. “If you truly care for his well-being, as well as your own, you would consider taking up the offer.”

 

“And what if I don’t go?” John challenges, when Mycroft’s out of the door. “To the interview.”

 

“Then I’d suggest you commence packing again.” Mycroft decides after a moment. “Because if you expected my brother to act on your feelings, then I believe you would be hopelessly disappointed. Good day.” He murmurs idly, and the next thing he knows, the door closes, and the car begins moving again.

 

-

 

On his way in, he notices light seeping through one of the bedrooms and a silhouette pacing back and forth through John’s view. That must be Sherlock, he thinks. Picking up the pace, he hardly notices a packaged brown box with no written address in it, but a sticker with only his name written on top. Confused, he jiggles the box a bit, hearing a soft thump on one end, which might indicate that the object either be soft in texture, or malleable in cushioning. Nevertheless, he carries it with one arm, heading directly towards his bedroom, and a preparing for a nice shower to wash the horrid day of abandonment away. Or at least try to. He leaves the box on his bed without another thought.

 

-

 

“You, where did you get this?” The box was immediately shoved under his nose, accusing.

 

“Well, hello to you too.” He mutters sarcastically, drying his damp hair to a semblance of submission.

 

“Where. Did. You. Get. This. Box?!” Sherlock repeats, voice elevating to a penetrating shrill that simultaneously made John wince by the strength of it. He’s never heard Sherlock sound this angered, not ever, so forgive him if he doesn’t take it so well.

 

“Yeah, like you told me that you were just going to leave me behind? Sod off.” He scoffed, literally yanking the item out of the man’s grip. “And has anyone told you to stop snooping in people’s room? A bit not good, Sherlock.”

 

But Sherlock ignores him entirely, making a grab for the box, and heading towards the stairs.

 

“Sherlock! Oi! Get back here!” He exclaims, running down after the mad man.

 

He manages to catch up, just when Sherlock mechanically slices through the wrapping, and opening the package with the utmost care he’s ever seen the bloke ever handle anything. Slowly, he pops the lid open of an incredibly intricate box made from aged wood from under its wrappings, and pales at the sight. His knees visibly wobbled, which got John to abandon his anger for the moment with the aim to catch Sherlock in case he fell. He didn’t, but he looked to be in the precipice of it.

 

“Sherlock?” He mutters softly after a second. “What is it? What did you see?” But his friend just began shaking on his heels that got him to land towards the linoleum floor, a gravelly scream momentarily escaping his lips. He seemed to be whispering under his breath incomprehensible words that John couldn’t make sense of. He reached out to comfort Sherlock, but the bloke only managed to slide away until his body had hit a solid object, namely the countertop, which left him questioning what could be inside the box that’s got his companion so frightened that he could barely keep himself together that he abandons the ability to be able to stand altogether.

 

Keeping Sherlock in peripherals, John slowly approaches the box, lifting the lid as his friend had done. At first the weird shape had thrown him off balance, but the recognition is there. Inside the box was a human heart, shielded with soot, and a neat incision of ‘SH’ written right on the center. There was another set of initials scratched out, covered with angry swipes to it, which makes whatever was written indecipherable.

 

John frowns, taking a longer glance at the writing, and being unable to take anything in, nevermind the rabid scratches to the one next to it, but ‘SH’? There’s only one person whom he knew those initials belonged to, but refused to put it all together, fearing that it fitted in too well to be true. _Why?_ Was the only thing that could come to mind. What does this heart have to do with Sherlock?

 

He barely realizes it when the previously frightened man was right by him, whispering so closely that he could be mistakenly assumed to be possessed, repeating the single word over and over again: “Moriarty”

 

“Moriarty? What’s that?” He inquires, not quite getting it.

 

Sherlock meets his eyes for a second, unfocused eyes focusing in just that one measly second.

 

“He’s back.”

 

And he immediately trails off to his room, slamming the door to a close.

 

-

 

The next time he awakens (though he doubts he’s even slept at all), he doesn’t bother brushing his teeth, quickly soughting after Sherlock who had his door - which was partially closed on most days - gaping as though it been yanked with a considerable amount of force. Utterly terrified, he hastens his pace, almost barrelling towards the room to find it untouched, and devoid of the only occupant it could posses.

 

He immediately reaches for his phone, doing a brief scroll down with his eyes before pressing call. The phone rings out, but doesn’t offer the voice mail. He tries again for a few good handful of times before he sets off towards Scotland Yard, knowing just the right man to look for.

 

-

 

“I’m sorry, sir.” The lady apologizes again in a neutral monotone. “But Detective Inspector Lestrade is not in at the moment, and won’t be back for a while, considering that he’s currently out on a case.”

 

“A case? The recent one? With the boy?”

 

“I believe so, or at least as far I know about the matter.”

 

“It’s okay Susan, I’ve got this one.” Sergeant Donovan calls out from his right. ‘Susan’ nods, looking visibly grateful by the intrusion, and hiding away to tend to a phone call. “He’s not here, you know?”

 

“Yeah, I’ve been told that for the past five minutes, actually.” John half-snipes, clenching a fist behind his back. “I was just about to lea -”

 

“By the looks of it, I’m sure we’re talking about two different people, aren’t we? Or one in the same?”

 

John gapes.

 

“Say, have you found your little friend yet?” She switches the topic seamlessly.

 

“Well, I have -”

 

“And yet he’s disappeared again, hasn’t he?” She giggles humourlessly, eyes patronizingly boring onto John’s skull. “I could say I told you so, but I think you’re already too aware of the situation.” She waves him out, heading towards the direction she came. “In case you’re wondering, he’s at Bart’s.” And she was gone within a matter of seconds from his line of vision.

 

-

 

Retracing his steps from the previous day, John was immediately able to locate the morgue, and at the centre of it all was Sherlock. He looked to be the picture perfect of calm, as opposed to his state the previous night. What he had counted odd, however, was that Sherlock is surrounded by three people in variations of green, teal, and plain blue medical scrubs. They all wore a mask of concentration, whilst they assisted with the careful incision Sherlock was about to make on the small boy’s body. He had been hoping to converse with the man, but noticing his complete lack of attention to anything not related to the surgery, he paid no mind to.

 

In fact, it even felt like he was looking at the bloke as though he was some otherworldly being, untouchable, even after seeing some of the man’s worst moments. He tried calling his name, but found the sound lodged deep within his throat to be able to get anything out. He’s never felt this distant with Sherlock in the entirety he has ever known the bloke. The very realization felt excruciating, somehow, like he’s just the casual being that happened to exist around the same universe as the man. His heart grows weary at the sight.

 

“You look like you need this more than I do, mate.” Lestrade offers, sounding chastised, and cautiously approaching John with the generic coffee cup that’s sold somewhere in the hospital.

 

John offers a small, unsure smile, thanking Lestrade for his trouble, and grabbing ahold of the steaming cup, bringing it immediately towards his lips.

 

“A hard worker, that one.” Lestrade starts, beaming proudly at the bloke playing around with the body with nothing but a scalpel. “Came extra early than his regular hours, and got started working right away. Come to think of it, I didn’t expect for you to come.”

 

John flinches, obviously surprised by the assumption.

 

“Sorry? What?” Hadn’t they just made it clear the day before that John had the same amount of access to the case, as much as Sherlock does? Or had he imagined the entirety of yesterday?

 

Lestrade’s eyes suddenly widen in realization.

 

“Oh, he didn’t.” He suddenly looked deflated, like a popped balloon if he was to drift into specifics. “He said that you weren’t coming in today. Made it clear to never ask for you again, seeing as you’ve got yourself a new job.”

 

He hasn’t even talked to Sherlock about anything yesterday, other than the revelation of the contents from inside the mysterious package. He doubts that Mycroft had contacted him about it, remembering that Mrs. Hudson had pointed out that Sherlock had continuously refused to see his brother. So how then can he know about the job, and let alone make assumptions for him that he just took it without consulting the detective first.

 

The urge to speak to Sherlock grew as the hours pass. He refuses to speak to anyone until he can get some answers.

 

-

 

Much as he’d thought that he’d got everything planned out, he loses track of Sherlock again. Well, he almost does, but it seemed that luck had been in his favour this time when he cops the latter out on his way out of the door.

 

And for all intents and purposes, it had been raining at the time. This meant that even if there’d been some distance in the earlier time, they’re sure as hell given more than enough at the moment. Even Sherlock who had been beelining to where he was headed had to pause by the sliding doors, sighing softly, breath fogging at his midst.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be at Bart’s?”

 

There wasn’t a single noise in the background that could’ve stopped anyone from having overhearing the question. The odd thing about the rain is that although it drives people to the nearest awning, or building, it tended to have a solitary feel to it, like everything else had been irrelevant, and that whoever was closeby can momentarily share moments together to get a feel of being the last beings on earth, just until the cloud ceases to douse them with its ever consistent pelts.

 

Sherlock had probably already sensed it beforehand about being trailed, which is why he spoke in his usual pompous baritone.

 

“It hadn’t occured at the time.” The latter sniffs, turning his eyes away.

 

“And you willingly dragged me out of bed the morning before, and had made the both of us breakfast? You always make it a habit to have your phone with you in most cases. Do I hear a bullshit?”

 

Sherlock throws him this look as though he’d been surprised to hear John make note of his quirks or the maybe just the cussing. Either way, he makes an effort to smother it down to blank indifference.

 

“I’ve been busy.”

 

“Busy doing...what?” John snorts, crossing his arms. A gurney was being brought in, which got him to distance himself a bit, before moving back to his original position. “The case? The case that I thought was something that I was led on to believe that I could help you with? That case?” He did mean to sound angry, but all he heard was the sadness that tinged his every word. “Because if you were referring to that, Lestrade’s already gotten me caught up on three prime suspects that may have caused the kidnapping, and the surgical procedure altogether, and they’re already getting strong leads on that. Really, what’s your excuse?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t utter a word, but his eyes had been visibly drifting towards every door  he could get his attention on, without attempting to be discreet. He clearly wanted an out, judging by the amount of tapping his oxfords had assaulted the floors with.

 

“Nothing, huh?” He feels the lack of sleep finally catching up with him, blurring the corners of his periphery, but he remains awake due to his need to get some answers, and that large cup of coffee that Lestrade’s gifted him with. “Well I guess I better keep on talking. How -” He grits his teeth, wondering how to phrase the sentence that would provide the least resistance. “You knew about the job offer that Mycroft offered...how?”

 

“It should be fairly obvious.” But that hadn’t sounded like an answer. At all.

 

“Then please enlighten us scatter-brained plebeians with one of your tell-tale deductions.” It sounded somehow cruel in his ears, even after repeating it in his head. He’d be lucky if Sherlock would indulge him with an appropriate answer after this.

 

Sherlock frowns, fumbling with his pockets for an object - a cigarette box, and lighting a single stick with his lighter. He doesn’t answer.

 

“Come on, Mr. Punchline.” He urges, joking because he could; it didn’t all have to be serious, this is no drama series after all. “You’re usually above all this.”

 

His friend looked somewhat put off with the abrupt change of nuance. His posture tenses even further.

 

“Does it have something to do with him?” In peripherals, his friend twitches, but doesn’t make a sound. He knows that it had been a wild guess, but taking in the reaction that Sherlock had inadvertently shown yesterday, he couldn’t just simply rule the fact out. Not when the terror had left such a permanent spot in his memory under the list of never wanting to see again, under Harry’s face before she made him leave, the irreparable sadness on the corners of her eyes that indicated that things wouldn’t be the same anymore. “Moriarty, you said he was back. Was it him?”

 

“What is it with you?” Sherlock suddenly says, in a spurt of unbridled rage. He has both fists balled tightly that it visibly cut off the blood flow, judging by the unnatural pallor on his knuckles. “What is it with you, and your-your saviour complex?”

 

“Wha -” He cuts himself off, being caught off guard by the assumption. “I’m not sure what you’re -” What is exactly happening? Why is he always the one who’s caught unaware of Sherlock’s ever-changing moods? And why does he feel the urge to punch the lights out of this infuriating madman until he couldn’t say anything more, the same time he wanted to kiss him until all the breath’s been literally knocked out of him? His feelings are messed up, that’s what they are.

 

But Sherlock doesn’t give him the time to be able to get accustomed to whatever it was that was happening, edging closer to his personal space.

 

“You’re not at war anymore, John. Mrs. Hudson may have fed you up about all the wonderful stories of what I’ve done for people, but clearly her age has impaired her ability to be able to judge a character for what it truly is.” He was all up near John’s face, nostrils flaring. Another first amongst Sherlock’s random outbursts that he’d been the receiving end of. “I’m not some gentleman hero who does good for the sake of humanity; I do it because I get bored, and solving interesting cases had been the only alternative to straying away from my previous habit.” The fierceness in the blue of his eyes might as well have been ice, judging by the way he’s left viscerally bruising by the end of every sentence.  “I lie a lot, I tell people things that they would

want to hear just to play around with them until I could figure them out. And when I’m done with them, I ditch them, because that’s what I do. I use people until I’m sure I’ve squeezed out every drop of anything redeemable in their character, and dispose of them,” His eyes narrow, a cruel smirk written plain as day on his friend’s face. He’s never felt so terrified of the other man in his life. “So the very fact that you’ve received a job from Mycroft had been my way of thanks, for having to tolerate my company for all this time.”

 

“I don’t understand.” Because nothing is adding up. Sherlock is telling him things, but his brain just couldn’t articulate the whole of it. “Sherlock, what are you trying to say?” Please don’t tell me what I think you’re trying to tell me.

 

“Surely you must’ve caught on by now, _Doctor_ Watson.” Acid, that was the only thing he could find that would be remotely close to the burning sensation of where the remains of his heart had existed not only moments ago. “Or have you not realized all about my inability to relate to other people? Why I’m fascinated with the beauty of people’s deaths? I’m practically a psychopath, John. Not sure as to why you have yet to realize it. I _used_ you, and now that I’m done with you, I’m going to need you to leave. Leave as far as you could without having the urge to look back.”

 

“Why?” He whispers breathlessly, risking himself further torture.

 

“Because I can’t stand having to look at the face of a broken man who couldn’t be fixed.”

 

And that, that definitely sliced something within his psyche. Ambulances were whirring, people were barking orders about room numbers, and current statuses, but he couldn’t be arsed to pay attention. Sherlock’s already disappeared under the veil of the rain, and he was left standing in that one corner where they’ve somehow pushed him to. He closes his phone entirely, and began walking under the vicious spray of mother nature, hoping that he’ll somehow be relieved of all this pain that ached through every crevice of his body. Sadly it did nothing but emphasized how truly alone he is, and how he misses home already. He just doesn’t want to acknowledge that it constituted more towards one person in particular, and not a space to live in.

 

He walked tirelessly, never having a particular place in mind.

 

-

 

“Oh dear heavens! John! Is that you?!” Having heard his name, it should’ve been normal to turn to whoever was calling for him, but his head is already lost in the sea of mourning for his lost that he doesn’t realize that his feet had taken him directly towards Baker Street. “Good gracious, you looked like a drowned cat, come in, come in and we can have some tea to get you warmed up.”

 

John doesn’t realize that he was being led by the arm until he realizes a towel covering half of his body, as well as another one that’s wiping away at his sodden scalp. Mrs. Hudson had but a determined look on her face, continuing, even when he’s sure that his scalp had been dry enough to be likened to the Sahara.

 

“Mrs. H… what..” are you doing here? Why are you helping me? Why didn’t you call for me when you got back? When did you get back? All of these questions remained seated on the back of his tongue, and a warm cuppa pressed insistently onto his hands.

“Oh, never you mind, deary.” She urges, dropping a plate of fresh pasties in front of him. “Go on, love, surely you must be hungry?”

 

But John only frowns, staring forlornly at the plate.

 

He feels a warm hand at his shoulder, meeting worried brown eyes.

 

“John, what happened? I didn’t expect for you to be back after quite a while.” She titters, seating on the chair across from his, taking hold of one of his forearm.

 

When he doesn’t say a word, she gets this knowing look on her face, downturning in grief.

 

“My, what has that boy done now?” She murmurs, stroking soothingly up and down his arm. “John, please talk to me. What happened?” And if it wasn’t the familiarity of being already used to the company of Mrs. Hudson, he would’ve just taken the nearest exit, and hide away in some downtrodden area where they’ll never discover his body.

 

“I, uh - Sher -” He groans, closing his eyes to keep the tears from escaping. “Sherlock, he -”

 

“Sherlock, what, love? What happened?”

 

Feeling a tear accidentally slip by his defenses, he fights the urge the scream.

 

“Sherlock...he-he” He’s not even sure how to phrase it at all. They were never lovers, Sherlock had already made that abundantly clear from the beginning. They were never just acquaintances because they’ve practically lived together for a few months in something that had been more intimate than living civilly.

 

A few days ago, he would’ve insisted that they were the closest of friends (in fact, he might even regard him as his best friend if given enough time to consider it), but apart from what was alluded to him, he’s never really gotten a proper chance to hear anything from the bloke’s early years. So far, all he’s ever known was Sherlock the unfeeling human, Sherlock the enigma, and Sherlock the eccentric, but never anything about what he did as a child, nothing about his hopes, his dreams, his passions.

 

However cliched it might’ve been, John would’ve stayed for the remainder of his days wanting to hear about Sherlock’s past without needing to be pushed to doing it, because he finds the bloke interesting, even on days where he doesn’t even utter a word. John wanted-wants so much that his heart could very well burst through the seams. But he knew there was no point to it now. Sherlock said so himself, he’s done with him, and as much as it hurts him to do it, he has to move on, no matter how much he would’ve loved to have defied everything - even the law - to do the opposite.  But all this came in the worst of times. The person he wants, has been pining for had just outright said that he didn’t want him anymore, that he’d used him all this time. What’s pathetic is that even after how much he has been hurt by the bloke, he still considered going back. Even when he very well knew that Sherlock would simply turn away, or worst, close the door on his face, he still wanted to try, even if his actions could would serve to be fruitless in the end. God, is that what it feels like to give your heart to somebody else, only to have it be torn in two in front of your very eyes? He must be a masochist to still want this - whatever _it_ is - so much.

 

He clears his throat in a poor attempt to regulate it.

 

“He gave up.

 

-

 

Eventually his motivation to trying to get a hold of Sherlock wanes, and all he ever focused on in the majority of his days was his new job. And although it had only been a part-time, he’s been taking longer and longer hours in the clinic, that he might as well have worked full-time. However, they claimed that he had already been exhausted enough to appear as though he’d been ready to pass out in a few too many occasions, so part-timer he remained.

 

Seeking comfort from a familiar face, he continued to reside in Baker Street. Of course, Mrs. Hudson had been all too giddy by his prolonged stay, but that doesn’t exactly stop him from feeling like he’s been taking advantage of her kindness this whole time, playing the pity card. When repeatedly told this, Mrs. Hudson scolded him like she would’ve chastised a little boy, only rather than a spanking, he was force fed a couple of recipes that she had been practicing for quite a while, and some of John’s favourites when it suited her schedule.

 

If Sherlock was in, he would’ve been called an idiot for having to remain with such banal emotions. He would’ve argued that even if he did still have it, that doesn’t prevent him from wanting to dispel the matter altogether. To which Sherlock would sulk away in the corner, avoiding the world altogether until John manages to coax him out of his fit. Even without the madman, it doesn’t actually help that John could hear him through the whispered silences in the flat, and the occasional scientific inaccuracy he hears from mystery films when they try to narrate how the murder was committed.

 

 _Completely appalling!_ He would’ve cried. _How could you even tolerate this kind of nonsense, John?_

 

John would’ve just smiled, insisting that these movies had been a classic, and even if Sherlock had already predicted how the rest of the movie would’ve turned out down to a ‘t’, he would stay right by John’s side until the ending credits to discuss changes he would’ve made in order to make the film more tolerable. Usually said contents would involved a whole new storyline with more deaths that circulated around the main characters, but John sits through it all regardless.

 

Even in a life not involving Sherlock, John coped through some nights with friends at the bar when they’ve already got someone in that day, heck, he even saw Greg a couple of more times.

 

Surprisingly, he had been John’s only confidante that he could talk to when it came to Sherlock. Of course, Greg had to at least be briefed with the gist of how he and Sherlock met, and how it currently felt like having to move back in 221B, and in exchange Greg would reply with the

latest detail on a few cases, throw in a couple more whiskeys, and he started opening up about Sherlock evidently being more secretive upon John’s departure.

 

“Sometimes he talks to you, you know?” Greg hiccups, puckering his face whilst he took another sip. “When he thinks that nobody’s paying him much attention, he says your name with some sort of medical-related question. Scared half the team the first few times, but they knew better, and just responded to his questions. He doesn’t acknowledge that he hears any of it, but he does seem a bit more tolerable afterwards.”

 

John smirks, trying to mask the hurt.

 

“So he’s doing good, then? Great.” He remarks snappishly at the word.

 

Greg frowns behind his inebriation, taking in account John’s demeanor, and playfully rough-siding him to get John to snap out of the bad funk.

 

“If it makes you feel any better, he mostly keeps his insults to himself now. Don’t get me wrong, the whole team appreciates the change, but it’s like he’s hardly even there half the time. He just goes and tells us what to do, helps out a bit if we didn’t get it the first try, then just disappears back to his flat without another word. Now I don’t know what he’s exactly like on his own, but he seemed more better, happier with you there.”

 

Having chugged down a few too many drinks (not because he had been affected by Greg’s assurance), he was forced to hail a cab for himself to go back to Baker Street. On his way there, he receives one single text from the last person he would ever expect.

 

**_Alone is what protects me. -SH_ **

 

And judging by the way his heart had hammered at the time, he think it’s safe to say that he’s pretty much screwed for the rest of the population.

 

He falls asleep on his bed attempting to compose a message, but failing all the same. This was the first time he’d ever acknowledged how weak he truly was, falling in love with the only thing that could very well kill him.

 

-

 

He wakes up to the sound of buzzing. At first he would’ve thought that he had dreamt the whole event together, but the message had still remained right where he had witnessed it first. _Alone is what protects me_ . He couldn’t help but marinade what the single sentence alone had meant other than what was written. He currently is dealing with a mild headache due to his previous activities, but when ignored, it’s like it wasn’t even there. _Alone is what protects me._ He shakes his head, attempting to rid his him of having to overthink it, but the attempt had proven to be fruitless, no matter how much he tried.

 

He erases the embarrassing attempt of love proclamation - he can save that for later if given the chance - and instead composing another message.

 

**_Friends protect people._ **

 

His thumb hits send before he would have been able to conjure up the worst scenarios. Sherlock’s mind is not the only one capable of being toxic.

 

The moment he closes his phone, the annoying buzzing sound chimes again.

 

 **_Blocked Caller -_ ** **_Calling_ **

 

Hesitantly, he swipes the screen to answer, only to come with a familiar voice that he hasn’t heard from in a while, though unfortunately not the one he’s been waiting for.

 

“Doctor Watson.”

 

“Mycroft?”

 

“Do get into the awaiting sedan. You and I have some important matters to discuss.”

 

And the call had ended there.

 

Sighing, he heads towards the bathroom door, noting how he hadn’t changed at all from the clothes he had worn in the previous day, and how his breath tasted like cheap beer and stale vomit. Setting priorities first, he decides to brush his teeth, and bulleting towards the staircase without another word. This had better be good.

 

-

 

As soon as John notices Mycroft sitting on a chair, he immediately notes the strange sort of silence that felt almost too palpable, and tangent, that even his breathing had began to grow tighter at the presence.

 

Noticing John’s pause by the doorway, Mycroft moves from the stiff, lurid pose, motioning to the seat available across from him.  His eyes remained stony, and well-repressed that he could very well have killed a man just moments ago.

 

John only notices the rumple on his sweater at that very moment, and the unmanageable strand that simply would not cooperate. Damn, he should’ve taken the time to manage his appearance properly instead of diving in head first into the storm. But. seeing as Mycroft showed no particular countenance towards this state, then that probably meant that how he looked had already been subpar from the beginning that he had already been accustomed to it, or he just didn’t care. John favoured the latter.

 

Either way, he gives himself a quick nod, jolting his legs to cooperating for a change, and sit on the available seat.

 

They were staring at each other for a what felt like a moment, with Mycroft’s contemplative, but nonetheless penetrative gaze. John jiggling his leg a few times whilst he tried to assess something that he's aware that he might discover sooner or later, but is not too sure at the moment - he hasn’t exactly honed in the ability to be able to read any of the Holmeses as of yet.

 

“Important matters, you said?” He coughs onto his knuckle, cursing internally about having picked up the habit from Sherlock. Maybe they have been around each other too much.

 

Mycroft, having noticed the movement as well, looked thoroughly amused. Though the movement had apparently been short-lived, seeing as his face had lost its familiar warmth, and is then replaced with morose, and cold-cut steel.

 

“About a month ago, you have successfully managed to get my brother back to his previous occupation with quite a finesse.” His fingers, trail along the cherrywood of his chair, paying special attention to its detailed curves and arches. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

 

Although the comment had indeed sounded like a compliment, there was a hard edge to how specifically addressed the matter was that peaked his attention.

 

“You don’t sound exactly too happy about that.” He points out, leaning closer, both hands gripping a single knee.

 

Mycroft’s expression doesn’t waver, but his fingers does shift their course towards the fabric of the man’s trousers.

 

“On the contrary, my previous attempts to bargain with my brother had all served to be futile.” John was stuck in a hard place, trying to figure out whether he’s hearing resentment, or just plain jealousy for being unable to be the one to get his sibling back to his own environment of preference. “In this case, however, had deemed to be far more elaborate than what ordinary people are able to perceive.”

 

He raises a brow.

 

“Meaning?”

 

“What do you know of the man known as Moriarty?”

 

John gave it a quick consideration.

 

“Other than being back, and that he somehow knows Sherlock, close to nothing.” And if he hadn’t been clear enough about his intent. “Why?”

 

“A man like Moriarty is a large spider that has developed a long tangent of connections all leading back to the center. He is the cause of many unsolved tyrannies across the border, and has yet to be caught by anyone with a significant amount of power. He could blow up a small town, only for the public to mistake it for a terrorist attack. Moriarty quintessentially is the napoleon of crime, and nobody who knew of his existence had lived to see the day if they so much as to utter a peep about the single strand of his web. Nobody until…” The silence itself had been nothing short of ominous.

 

Realization blooms on John’s face.

 

“No.” Because how could...no. Sherlock, he solved crimes for people, he couldn’t have been so careless to just be involved with such a worldwide criminal, he’s far too clever for that. He couldn’t have. “He wouldn’t..” But how was he supposed to finish that sentence, with only knowing very little. What he couldn’t believe is that he’d been trying to avoid what had already been unravelling in front of his eyes, assuming that not acknowledging it would keep his thoughts in check, keep his relation with Sherlock innocent and unassuming. But that hadn’t been the right course of action at all, because judging by the severity of it, he has just single-handedly managed to blow the whole situation out of proportion. Several children had

died because he has somehow turned a blind eye to all the changes he’s seen on Sherlock until it was too late, and he was no longer allowed to see him anymore.

 

“Judging by the astonishment and baffled expression, I would daresay that my brother had not told you anything at all.” Mycroft points out, reaching for a transparent canister, and meticulously pouring what appeared to be whiskey into two glasses. John doesn’t hesitate to take a quick sip, wrinkling his nose at the oncoming burn on his throat.

 

Instinctively knowing that he shouldn’t utter a single word, he shakes his head, hanging his head low to pick at loose strings from his jeans.

 

Mycroft mirrors the movement, although differing in reaction by welcoming the drink similar to a man deprived of water.

 

“Moriarty hadn’t always been a man of a singular passion, he used to be what you could call ignorant, and more cheerful than most. I’ve not really seen much of him during my previous years due to my astutely coordinated scheduling, but I’ve seen him enough to get a distinct feel that he and my brother might have been perfect for each other. They shared a few common interests, remained inquisitive to most things, how they work, and if given enough time, I’m sure he would’ve been able to match my brother within regards to mental capacity and sharpness.”

 

Even during his third, maybe fourth sip, the stinging was reduced to a low burn, not enough to indicate that he’d been a light-weight (which he’s not), but enough to dull the oncoming pain that came with hearing Mycroft’s regard for the man.

 

“But, it would seem that it’s not only I who’ve been blindsided by Moriarty’s betrayal, but also the entirety of anyone who knew the lad. Of course it should’ve been obvious at the time, with the amateurly concealed bruises in the entirety of his body, but I’ve only accumulated only a small party of influence to have been able to glance at his file, as I’d have done with anybody who Sherlock had come to recognize as a person of importance. They have all been well-screened, and have been provided with detailed-analyses with regards to their family history, current assets, etc. Nothing about a minute of their life had not gone on record, until Moriarty.” And his voice trails off, indicating the “and nobody ever will”, but not explicitly citing it. Mycroft’s expression darkens when he resumes.

 

“Little did I know that Moriarty’s father had a prominent history of violent tendency regarding his mental illness that we’ve come to know as psychopathy, or antisocial behaviour, and have been physically abusing his son from right under our noses. However, disconnecting him from his condition, Mr. Moriarty had been a clever man, with multitudes of awards, and variation of

math-related PHDs under his name, which meant that he was no fool when it came to disciplinary protocols to conceal the fact of the damage that he’s caused towards his son. Could’ve gotten away with it too, had Sherlock not called the police when Moriarty had been too badly bruised to be able to speak coherently through the phone. Mr. Moriarty had been charged with a short sentence due to his illness, but he had been assigned to a lifetime of continuous medicated treatments under the ward of the very best psychiatric institution known to man, under the influence of yours truly, and he was then re-adopted by his equally abused - although healthily recovering - mother for safekeeping. They moved away, and my brother and I had guessed that, that would’ve been the last we see of dear James, but it turns out, when Sherlock had only began assisting Scotland Yard during the age of 20 - when he accelerated towards his pre-doctorals - did the universe dictate for the two to reunite.”

The alcohol did nothing to stop his heart from clenching the way it did when Mycroft had regarded him with lifeless eyes, as though he’d seen the worst there is to see about the world, and had been trying so hard to contain the pain that lay beneath them.

 

“Mycroft, don’t -”

 

“Apologies, John.” Mycroft grimaces, swiping a restless hand through his hair. “It would seem that my memories had gotten the best of me, seeing as it’d just been so recent that Sherlock has come back to London.” His fist slams towards the table, echoing a dull ripple towards every material on the furniture, though by the looks of it he had been well-contained, at least for now. “I’d have thought that he would’ve at least given my brother some time to prepare himself, but he couldn’t just stay well away, he just had to force his hand when he found out about..” Then he meets John’s gaze. He didn’t say the inevitable word, but John quickly understood, it doesn’t take an idiot to understand what that meaningful look had meant.

 

“Suffice to say, Sherlock appears to have grounded himself due to your cooperation, and is well on his way back to readjusting himself back to normal human conditions.” There should’ve been a fond smile there, knowing that his tone had been nothing short of amused, but a small glint was present, which was good enough. “Though in my brother’s case, normality is never a category in which he identifies with.” John hums in agreement.

 

The transition had been apparent when he recovers from the mild interruption, the shadows shifting ever-so-slightly that it encompasses the majority of Mycroft’s face.

 

“You’ve been acquainted with a Miss Martha Hudson for your current lodgings for sometime.” He states, flicking over a red book that magically materialized on his hands. “I would assume she spoke voraciously of Sherlock?” In other words, tell me what you know about what she’s told you about my brother.

 

“Well, I can’t say that she spoke so much about his life before, but rather the moments she’d been proud of. Said that he lived in Baker Street, used to shoot walls when he’s bored, makes a general mess on the kitchens, but he usually solves most cases for the met, but that was about it, I think. Other than the newspaper clippings about his involvement with the Met, and the very recent stay in Oklahoma.”

 

“Ah, yes, Oklahoma,” Mycroft muses, smiling humourlessly. “A very peaceful little spot, has the occasional bison, fairly ecological, very green. I suppose it would’ve been a much peaceful change from what my brother’s street, which is why we decided to tell anyone who knew him that.”

 

There was a beat of silence where John takes a moment to take the information in.

 

“Instead of what?” He drawls slowly. What could’ve been an alternative to such an ordinary trip to the prairies?

 

“He was incarcerated.” Mycroft replies bluntly. “Deported on some unknown location for treason to his Majesty’s service, where he remained in a span of 4 years.”

 

And for some reason, John began giggling, not because it was funny (frankly, it was opposite), but he just couldn’t help it.

 

“At the time, I thought that your brother was only joking about you practically being the British Government -”

 

“But I only occupy a minor position -” Mycroft interrupts, a spot of blush blooming on his cheeks.

 

“Yes, yes, he said the same thing when he told me that bit.” He wipes a nonexistent tear out of his eyes. “But by the sound of it, you occupy more than just the minor part, and you think modesty is the safest way for people to be given misconception of what you were truly capable of.”

 

When Mycroft opens his mouth in an attempt to defend himself, John raises his hand, giggling for a bit more, shaking his head.

 

“And even with all that power, you couldn’t have just pulled some strings to prevent your brother from being, I don’t know, excused from that long of a sentence?” You’ve not seen the pain that he’s gone through when he thought that nobody could see. You should’ve seen the way he

reacted the when I broke into the house, the way he’s staring at oblivion right on the face before I found him. “He doesn’t deserve any of that, nobody does, so why didn’t you?” Why didn’t you save him? Now it all made sense. “This is why he refused to see you now isn’t it? Because instead of trying to help, all you did was allow for that...that.. psychopath to mess with your brother!”

 

Mycroft sifts through his hair, hand incrementally shaking. His face has gone pale.

 

“I did what I thought was right.” He begins, voice lowering. “I did what only I _could_ do, don’t you understand?! I’ve never wished such a thing for my brother, but if I had harboured familial sentiment, then -”

 

John abruptly sits up from his chair. Mycroft remained still.

 

“You know what?” He clenches and unclenches his fist a few times. “Sod this, I’m going to talk to your brother, and get him to tell me everything. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind having me over for a visit.” He was just right outside the door when Mycroft voices his name in a way that made him pause mid-stride.

 

“Although discretion had always been the rule of which we uphold in most cases, I believe we can make an exception just for this one endeavour. Do say hello to my brother for me, won’t you Captain?”

 

Goosebumps flitters on his arms, his heart beginning to pick up.

 

He gives a single jerked nod to the side, before following one of Mycroft’s minion towards an awaiting black car, void of any license plates.

 

Although his mind should’ve been going a-mile-a-minute, he was surprisingly at peace, almost scenic in the most messed up sense. He immediately heads towards his room in Baker Street with his gun freshly loaded (because when does he ever not carry the ruddy thing?), and tucked at the front of his jeans, underneath his jumper. Donning his new boots on the way, he immediately slides towards the passenger seat, already opened for his arrival.

 

“Where to sir?” The henchman asks for once.

 

John smiles at the window, chin resting on the knuckle closest to the window.

 

“Home.”

 

-

 

At his arrival, John doesn’t waste anymore time with dilly dallying, reaching for his keys inside his trousers to unlock the door, only to hear a familiar click of a gun pointed directly at his head. Looking with just his eyes, he sees a man about no more than two, maybe three inches taller than him, with an SA80 machine gun loaded at his temple.

 

“Ah, there you are!” A man about his height appears from the kitchen; he looked gallant, dressed in a freshly fitted suit akin to a businessman of power. However what really got him was the soulless, beady black eyes that acknowledged John with an enraptured smile as though he’d been expecting him all along. “Sherlock dear, would you be a babe and fill in another cup; it would seem we’ve got ourselves a friendly visitor.” His head turns sour when regards the other man, expression mildly scolding. “Sebastian, love, might want to give the gent some space after he gets his loving pat, he is Sherlock’s guest, afterall.”

 

‘Sebastian’ merely huffs, tucking the weapon underneath his arm, and meticulously giving John the practiced rub down until his gun gives a soft click when the bloke presses on his stomach. Sebastian then extracts the pistol from where it was hidden beneath his jumper, wiggling the object like it was a toy gun, and handing it to who he’d assumed up to this point had been Moriarty.

 

“John Watson, in the flesh.” Moriarty remarks in awe, leading him to his regular chair that appeared to have seen the end of its remarkable life, burned, scratched, and appeared to have been mostly eaten by corrosive materials. “Go on then, down you pop.” And he was forcibly pushed towards the seat, only to receive a friendly smile that brought a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

 

Moriarty then takes his place on where Sherlock sat, his expression never wavering.

 

“Ah, pardon my manners! Jim Moriarty, Hi!” He offers his hand primly to John, shoving it in the space between them.

 

John merely stares at the hand.

 

To his surprise, however, Moriarty laughed jovially, pulling his hand discreetly away.

 

“Guess you’re not the very sociable type, are you?” He muses, leaning back and crossing his legs thoughtfully. “Much like my Sebastian had been, but he softened up soon enough.” He sighs softly, winking at the bloke who’ve been obediently standing behind John’s chair. “Have I told you he was a soldier? A colonel in fact. Oh, but he could’ve been a captain, wouldn’t you Sebby?”

 

“‘Fraid so.” The man replies in a low gruff, his eyes seem to have taken an amused glint.

 

“Sherlock, sweetheart, do scurry on over, I’m sure your little soldier is already a tad too annoyed that you’ve been taking so long~” And if he hadn’t known the bloke at all, he would’ve believed the sound to be playful jest. Now, it sounded like an ill-driven threat more than anything else.

 

He was about to cut in, wanting to say that he could wait a bit if needed, but he was stopped on his tracks, seeing Sherlock approach. His head was down, but it was clear that he had recently been tended to, noting the bandages that covered his purple fingertips, and a wrist cast on his left hand. Other than the injuries visible, the latter had looked as impeccable as ever, wearing a soft blue shirt that stopped at a chunk of his forearm. The mad nutter had been wearing his clothes, he thought fondly. He carried a large metallic disk with a freshly heated water with nameless tea bags perched inside each of the three mugs.

 

Sherlock sets the tray in front of them atop a wooden table, and handing John a single cup first, only to be intercepted mid-way by Moriarty, shaking his head.

 

“It’s my favourite cup.” He provides, the lie poorly hidden. Clearly he doesn’t trust Sherlock all that much.

 

Sherlock merely frowns, taking the next cup, and handing another one to John. His hands shaking as he attempts to lift the tea cup.

 

“It’s...okay.” John mutters, smiling slightly, and meeting Sherlock’s hold halfway, settling the cup in front of him. Sherlock appears to have held back a flinch when skin met skin. His eyes drifts towards John’s own in a flash, holding so much emotion behind it that he could find himself drowning in a sea of words that remained unsaid. “Thank you.”

 

Sherlock nods mutely, heading in another direction towards another seat to probably maneuver it towards their little arrangement, but Moriarty had him by the waist, leaving him to sit on the maniac’s lap. Sherlock gasped in surprised, clenching his teeth whilst he attempted to keep a wince in. It would seem that he had other injuries that are not-so visible.

 

“Seb, darling, be a nice poppet and pour us all a cup, would you?”

 

Sebastian is immediately at his side, pouring in a decent amount of water in his cup, then Sherlock’s, then Moriarty's.

 

“Do you take any sugar?” Moriarty offers, beckoning for Sebastian to retrieve the forgotten jar. John shakes his minutely, the glare he graces the man has yet to dissolve. Sebastian comes in not a second longer, dropping two sugars onto his cup. “Sherlock, sunshine, you prefer your tea with two sugars as well don’t you?” And another set of sugar was dropped to Sherlock’s brew.

 

Synchronously, they each take a drink, with only John having wrinkled his nose. Whatever type of tea they were given, it was definitely something that tasted awfully pungent, and tasted very little like the teas that he purchased from Tesco recently. In fact, this may as well have been the worst type of tea that John’s ever tasted in history, and he’s been to Afghanistan. There was, however, a distinct lemony taste, which he supposes had elevated the flavour.

 

Moriarty smirks behind his own cup like he’d been laughing at some inside joke, taking another sip.

 

“You sure you don’t want some sugar, Dr. Watson?”

 

“I’m fine, thank you.” John decides after some thoughtful consideration. Although the tea may have been lacking in taste, he knew Sherlock had prepared it for them, so he might as well savour it for its off-putting, yet faintly familiar flavour.

 

“Do you fancy a story, John? May I call you John? I’m quite certain you’re already aware of the details -”

 

“John doesn’t know anything about - nghhhhh” Sherlock doubles over when Moriarty squeezes at a particular spot on his torso.

 

John slams his brew pointedly, clenching his fists that rested on his thighs.

 

“If you could please just -”

 

“Well, will you look at that, it would seem that your John still cares for you. Oh, I do so love pets, they’re instinctively loyal, don’t you think, darling?” He strokes sweetly at the closest cheekbone. Sherlock eyes the movement with complete disdain. “Even when you’ve kicked them at the rump, they still come back and bite at the hand of strangers who threaten their owners lives.” His eyes meet Sebastian’s. “Which is why I’ve procured one for myself.”

 

“Anyways, let’s begin storytime. I believe it’s the right time now, is it not?” He doesn’t wait for any encouragement, and continues, just so. “Long ago, there had been two princes: one who spoke selectively, and one who said very little. One day, fate has decided to give these two princes a chance to a better life, and voila they met. The two had been perfect for each other, quite literally, like they were destined to meet, a pair of starcrossed lovers. Everything had been perfect until one day, when the prince who spoke very little told the Queen’s guards about an incident, which got the prince who spoke selectively to move away. The pair had expected not see the other anymore, but the aforementioned prince refused to give up, and found out that the other prince had been making quite a name for himself at the same time the selective prince had just discovered a profession of his own. Long-story-short, they ended up seeing each other again, and they truly believed that there boredom could not be quenched, so the prince who spoke very little then later transformed to sir boasts a-lot, and proposed a wager.” His smile turned sickeningly sweet, raking his eyes over Sherlock’s slightly-trembling frame, tea cup still resting on his lap. “‘Dear Jim, this world is filled of nothing but selfish idiots, are you interested in playing a little game with me?’”

 

Sherlock widens his eyes, attempting to jump away from Moriarty’s lap, but Moriarty has got a good grip on him to keep the curly haired bloke still.

 

“It would seem that Sherlock here knows the story very well, doesn’t he?” He chuckles, playing with with a stray curl. “Couldn’t even keep himself in line. Anyways, after he says this, the already grown selective prince considers the thought: ‘What do you have in mind?’ And sir boasts a-lot suggested that they play a game of chess, but real.”

 

“John -” Sherlock whimpers hoarsely. “- please.” He wasn’t even looking at Moriarty now, just John, with glittering, wet tears accumulating on his eyes. John bites his tongue to prevent himself from soothing Sherlock, from reaching out to him, and assure him that John would be all ears. However, now’s not the the time. He’s decided that this Moriarty is going to die a slow, but painful death for what he’s done. “I didn’t -”

 

“Aww, would you look at that? It finally got through to him, hasn’t it? The one fatal mistake he did. You see, although sir boasts a-lot at the time had no idea about what he’s started, what sir selective had been brewing behind the lines. All he ever cared about is solving puzzles, and that’s was what came his way. From then on, the a consulting detective, and consulting criminal was born. This went on for a few years, until eventually prince - oh forget it, daddy basically found that the person who he thought was his friend had been meeting up with his brother more frequently than normal. Curious, I sent a minion of mine that was working for the government at the time to have a peek at what the two brothers could have been meeting each other for, when they haven’t been fond of each other for quite some time. Imagine how I felt when I’ve been given intel that Sherlock here had been feeding his brother information about me, and that’s when daddy got very angry, hadn’t he, Sherlock?” Tears were now free-falling his friend’s face whilst he studies John. Moriarty smiles at him  toothily. “Look at you, John Watson, you look like you very much want to kill me, I can tell. Doesn’t he look it, Sebastian?”

 

The man in question doesn’t bother shifting his attention from Moriarty, replying with a small “aye”, and nothing else.

 

“Have you ever wondered why people go to vacations, John?”

 

John regards him with a grim expression.

 

“Most people do it to get away from their normal lives in an attempt to spice it up, some because they could. In Sherlock’s situation, however, let’s just say that some people had wanted to get rid of him for a long time, and I just happened to have the right amount of resources, and what do you know ‘Genius Detective A Fake’ appeared in the papers the next day. It was written in the papers so it must be true. Everything had been written down, every case taken into consideration, and with that, the story ends with the famous consulting detective beheaded for high treason.

 

However, big brother had come to the rescue, and pleaded his little brother’s case, and he was instead sent to some location under the radar for 4 years. And during that time, everyone had been made to believe that Sherlock had already been killed, even I myself believed it. But then after those 4 years, he’d suddenly been cleared of all the charges, and everyone was mourning for the lost of a good detective. However, news travel fast, and you appeared, Doctor Watson. You got Sherlock out of hiding to give the puzzle I sent for him a try, my people got in touch, and here we are.”

 

“You…” he could barely contain his anger. He took a few calming breaths in an attempt to keep his composure from slipping. “- the reason for all those kids, the kidnapping, and the -”

 

“Yes, yes, and yes. Dear Edmund had been such chipper lad, screamed as much as he could even when gagged..” Moriarty chirps. “And now it’s about time to say ‘bye bye’ now, seeing as

you’ve been present to hear all the story.” And now John’s gun was faced directly on the location of Sherlock’s head, and Sebastian’s weapon on John’s own. “On the count of three: one, two, andddddd -” Suddenly, Moriarty turns into an angry tomato colour, his skin swelling within seconds, and the pistol was dropped onto the floor, along with Sherlock, who reached for the object, only to have it kicked into the recesses of a bookshelf by one colonel Sebastian. The latter who had his rifle hanging by a shoulder, reached for a thick needle - an epi-pen - only to have John shoot directly at the object to have it shatter on his hands, transparent shards of glass scattering on the floor below him.

 

At first, John would’ve assumed that the colonel would aim for Sherlock seeing as he’d been the closest, but to his surprise, Sebastian has once again appeared by his side, grinning manicly from ear-to-ear, watching the realization bloom on Sherlock’s face as it happens.

 

“Killing him would destroy your whole world.” Sebastian explains, taking the safety off with a quick click. “You would lose the only thing that you ever truly cared for, that you’d go insane in the process.” He sighs wistfully. “The things I do for love.” And pulled the trigger.

 

Little did Sebastian know, John had been using the time of his apparent macabre eulogy to stomp on the bloke’s feet that got him to relocate his aim to somewhere above John’s head. Mechanically sliding the knife that he’s got hidden on his boots, he slices at the closest carotid artery on his neck sending a slew of blood splatter that sprayed on anything within close vicinity, and down goes Sebastian. What John hadn’t anticipated, however, was Sherlock hurtling towards him just as Sebastian had taken another shot, and sent the both of them stumbling onto the floor.

 

At the time, all he could feel was the weight Sherlock brought on top of his own. They were breathing hard, and for a second, he’d have expected for something to go terribly wrong, but one look towards their killers had indicated the opposite: Moriarty’s face had puffed up like a balloon, and he didn’t appear to be breathing regular breaths, seemingly incapable of moving an inch. Whilst Sebastian had remained where he originally fell, with his rifle loosely gripped on his hand.

 

“Sher -” But he was cut off by his friend physically vibrating. His long arms wound tightly along John’s shoulders, that the latter worries whether he would be suffocated to death, only to have it released with Sherlock’s forehead touching his. The detective had his eyes closed, breathing in the same air as John, so he couldn’t very well know what he'd been thinking of at the moment.

 

“Stay.” Sherlock whispers, voice cracking over the single word. “I don’t care how, or why, but -” He winces, tightening the line that’s formed on his lips. “I need you around me at all times. You… John..” His eyes opens, all red-eyed and teary. There was a mixture of tenderness, honesty, and vulnerability hidden within the varying shades of gold and blue. “You’re the only thing that’s ever been real in this world. Everybody else have their own agendas, not minding who they have to plow through in the process, but you… you’re the only one that’s ever stopped, saw me for who I am, and stayed. You stayed, even when I told you to go, John. I made up lies to get you away from witnessing all of the ghosts I’ve created. And I know that must have been selfish of me, but -”

 

“Shut up.” John says, immediately reaching for his mobile, knowing just the right number to get in touch of. His heart felt just about ready to burst, but he knows he’s got time now, time to discuss everything and anything.

 

Sherlock squawks in outrage.

 

“I’m not done yet.” The inevitable pout is prominent within his words without having to confirm it.

 

“I know, and if you’d want that graze to be looked after as well, then I might need your full cooperation on this one.” He begins to pull himself, along with Sherlock who had an arm around John’s shoulder for leverage. It must’ve taken a lot of effort to keep a busted leg hidden in plain view. “And just for the record, I love you too, you gigantic git. Pull that stunt again, and I will throw away every experiment you own.” He reaches over Moriarty’s pulse in three different locations to formally declare the man dead. Strategically hobbling both his and Sherlock’s body towards where some gasoline was placed beside the punch, John began thinking about anything of value, and deciding that there were none. Catching onto what John was about to do, Sherlock decided to keep himself seated where he has a great view of both bodies, studying them cynically, whilst John went on to spread the gasoline around.

 

When John was done, he took out a lighter from one of Sherlock’s hiding places, waving it at his unamused boyfriend (?), before assisting the both of them through the front door, and throwing the lighter towards the nearest point of contact with the liquid. Within seconds, the whole house had been engulfed in flames.

 

Having the sick feeling of satisfaction in his bones, John refuses to divert his attention, even when Mycroft and his goons arrive to dress Sherlock’s wounds properly.

 

“What’s my brother doing here?” Sherlock inquires from beside him, refusing to be detached from John even a second. He sounded more relieved than the outraged pitch he was going for.

 

However, Mycroft had merely turned away, studying the whole structure collapse quickly from the rooftop. He didn’t look all too impressed.

 

“Really, John.” He huffs, shaking his head. “Give the man permission to do as he likes, and he ends up burning the whole thing down to the ground. A bit primitive, wouldn’t you say? Though I can’t claim to be an expert on all things human.” His attention then drifts to his brother. “Dear brother, so good of you to have blessed us with your presence. Your year long sulk had finally diminished, has it?”

 

“I wasn’t sulking.” Sherlock squeezes John’s shoulder, hiding his face on his neck. “You’re insufferable, and I’ve merely been trying my best to avoid being around in the same vicinity to catch a whiff of it.” But John knew better, knew that he was yet to be accustomed to be around his brother again.

 

“Mycroft, as much as we enjoyed your visit, we’ve got to, uh -” He stares at one of the cars.

 

Mycroft’s follow his gaze with a nod.

 

“Yes, I suppose you should get on, do what you have to, erm.. recover out of this little stunt.” There was an unmistakable flush across his cheeks.

 

But John merely smiled, nodding gratefully before leading Sherlock back to the car.

 

"Wait."

 

The two paused from their path.

 

Mycroft hands a medium-sized case of what appeared to be an instrument of some sort to John's free hand.

 

"For when his hands are fully healed." He succinctly explains.

 

John nods, smiling. He gets the both of them inside the vehicle.

 

“221B Baker Street, please.”

 

And the car sets off towards the destination.

 

-

 

When they arrived in Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson had thankfully been away at a salon, getting her nails and hair done for an upcoming date she has with the owner of Speedy’s nextdoor. He couldn’t quite remember the name, but none of that had mattered the moment the doors to his-their flat had closed, changing Sherlock’s whole demeanor from just barely hanging on, to leaving his weight entirely for John to carry.

 

Sighing somewhat fondly, he brings both himself and Sherlock towards the sofa (because apparently during their separation had lost a little more than a few pounds), leaving Sherlock to tuck his head onto the crook of John’s neck, brushing his nose right on the curve. And that’s when he felt something warm pouring directly on his skin.

 

John was about to pull back, and ask what was wrong, but Sherlock had a firm hold on his shoulder and his wrist, and he doesn’t try anymore after that. Just allows Sherlock’s tears soak through his shoulder, lets his partner continuously check his pulse to affirm that he’s within the land of the living, and that all is right with the world. At least for now.

 

"I didn't mean to create him, create Moriarty." He whispers in agony. "I didn't! Please believe me John, I was just -"

 

However, John smiles, soothing a hand down soft curls.

 

"I know." He assures his detective. He might not know all too much about him, but he is aware what being lonely felt like, and if he knew Sherlock, he would've said that due to the overwhelming emotion he felt. He wouldn't have expected a psychopath to take his word in grain (nobody would have, if he was being honest - psychopaths are known to blend in towards society), and chose to kill people for a living. It was inevitable in a way, recalling Moriarty's past. No matter how cruel he was, his father had only served to catalyze his genetic make-up; Sherlock had only been the one to define the profession. The man had said so himself, Sherlock knew very little of what he's got in store, which meant that he'd already been working towards a fixed goal in the first place. Thus invalidating Sherlock's claim that he'd ever created Moriarty.

 

"I believe you."

 

-

 

A little over an hour, he awakes to Mrs. Hudson’s all too familiar gait, and the door opening with her trademark hoot.

 

“John you wouldn’t happen to have seen my -” And her voice dies down when she notices the slumbering lump on top of John. “It’s him, isn’t it?” She whispers, happy tears gracing her eyes. “This calls for a celebration! Forget Mr. Chaterjee, he can wait for another day. Don’t order anything out for dinner, boys, we’re having roast beef with potatoes, and blood pudding.” And she was out the door within seconds.

 

A few minutes passes where all he could hear was Sherlock’s quiet breathing before his detective spoke in a hushed tone.

 

“You are aware that she hoodwinked you into visiting me, don’t you?”

 

John smiles, closing his eyes.

 

“I had an inkling, yes.” And if it wasn’t clarification enough. “You’ve bloody well poisoned me the whole time haven’t you?”

 

Sherlock attempts what appeared to be outrage on the accusation, though not at all dismissing the fact.

 

“You hardly noticed it, and I figured it would’ve come in useful soon enough.” Well, that was easier than he thought.

 

“No, you didn’t.” John glares at him, huffing. “You just hated having to go through the symptoms of it alone, so you literally coerced me to doing it without my consent. Had to change my sheets regularly because I thought I’d been allergic to the fabric softener, you dolt.”

 

“But it saved you in the end, didn’t it?” Sherlock meets foreheads with him once more. “It was only through chance that Moriarty had chosen the largest dosage amongst the three, along with traces of it in the sugar. By luck, I’ve used up all the tea bags you’ve purchased and replaced it with my own blend. Using those facts to my advantage had been child’s play.” He smirks, eyes twinkling with merriment. “But then again, I wouldn’t put it behind the fact that the universe is rarely so lazy.”

 

“So you gave the most poisonous one to me, bargaining that Moriarty would choose the one you’ve specifically picked for me to drink. Excellent odds, that.” He strokes the sides of Sherlock’s face fondly, blue meeting blue. “You’ll be the death of me one day, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock’s expression softens, his whole countenance overtaken by the smile that fully bloomed on his lips.

 

“Surely there could’ve been a much worser option to meet one’s own demise.”

 

John reflects the smile, attacking the bloke on the mouth, barely noticing that it had been their first kiss.

 

“No, there really isn’t.”

 

“Shut up.” Sherlock counters without heat, pausing as if he'd read his mind, before following John’s lips for round two.

 

And although there was still the matter of Sherlock’s explanation about how he ended up under Moriarty’s thumb in the first place, and the matters of his imprisonment, he reckon’s he’s got enough time to hear the details about how Sherlock cheated death, and risen from the ashes he was condemned in.

 

More than enough time, he’d say.

 

-

 

End.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this. Please leave a comment about what you thought of this story in the comments section. If not, then tell me what I could improve on (I am open to logical criticisms). Kudos are also appreciated to the utmost extent. If you aren't so open to having your comment seen by the public (or for other reasons), I am also available under the name of Consultingpigeon on Tumblr in case you wanted another form of contact with me (I won't be publishing it upon your request). Other than that, do have a good summer, will you? :}


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